


Maximilla's 2020 Kinktober

by Mx_Maxie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Kinktober 2020, Multi, chapters tagged individually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maxie/pseuds/Mx_Maxie
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Get ready for ghosts, ghouls, roboys and plenty of toys. It's gonna be a wild ride and here's to enjoying every second of it.
Relationships: Original Character/Original Character/Original Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	1. Vampire Thrall

**Author's Note:**

> pairing: nb vamp / cisfem human
> 
> petnames: Master, Darling
> 
> cw: bloodplay, cunnilingus, body worship, begging, multiple orgasms

Lips at her thigh keep her grounded, the only thing that does. Lips at her thigh, burning hot, and hands pinning her hips so she doesn’t squirm too much. Though it’s hard. Oh fuck it’s _h_ —

 ** _“Fuck!”_** rips its way out of her throat, hooked out of her gut like the orgasm that lightning jolts through her. Another one, another one, another ahhh, god.

Her back arches, painfully hard, and her heart thuds in her chest, and all she can see is black. Black squeezed shut eyes, and red bursting behind them. Red spilling across her thighs. Like her slick dripping, like the spit leaking down their chin.

And wanting to see them pries her eyes open, smooths her curled spine until she can look down-down between her legs where they’re staring back at her. Eyes wide, eyes half-lidded, and full sated. She can tell, they’ve had enough, more than enough, but their lips don’t leave her skin.

Their fangs retreat, slide out of the vein and take a shuddering moan with them. One that throws her head back against the pillows, makes her pant to get soothe her aching lungs.

They lap at the skin, rough tongue rasping, and it should hurt, she knows it should, but _fuck_. All it does is make her wrung out pussy clench, and her gut twist, and her heart speed right back up. They already— _she’s_ already cum three times already, when they bit down, when they swallowed, when they dug in and _sucked_.

She shouldn’t want more, no reason she should, but she does. She does, does, does. And they know it. Can smell it on her, even though the room just smells like sex and blood. Even though not a drop of her precious blood was split, it never is. They can smell how much she wants them, fingers or mouth, doesn’t matter.

“Darling,” they croak, half-pained, all drunk.

“Darling,” they croon, thumbs rubbing possessive little circles into her hips. Warm, for once. Warm after feeding so well.

“Darling _please_ ,” they beg, nipping lightly, kissing sweetly. And she knows, oh she knows, if she peaked down again she’d see the prettiest puppy dog eyes batting up at her. Begging and desperate, even though right under them are wicked fangs, razor sharp and twice as deadly.

They could take whatever they wanted, have whatever they liked. They already have her, all of her, but they’re still begging like _she’s_ the Master.

One word, one haunting-trembling word and she’d be on her knees for them. Baring her throat, holding a knife to her neck, offering herself and every last drop of her blood. One look and she’d thrust out her wrists, gnaw at the skin with her blunt human teeth and it broke and her Master could feed.

So easy, so very easy, but they don’t. They aren’t like the sires and scions she’s seen at those ever elaborate Masquerades. They don’t have a house full of thralls ready and willing to bleed themselves dry for their beloved Master. No, oh no, what they have instead is her, just her, and the deepest affection for their one sweet doll.

“Wanna fuck me Master?” she asks, proud to keep that little tremor out of her voice. The one that always gives away how excited and needy and _horny_ she is. Not that she doesn’t like letting them know, but it’s fun to tease sometimes. When they think she’s not as out of her mind desperate as them, when they think they have to earn it.

“Or do you wanna eat me out?” and the hands on her hips shiver-tremble-stutter. Yes, yes they’d like that very much, she knows they would, but like she said, fun to tease.

And a single peak lets her know they’re having fun too. Mouth hung open in a pant, fangs gleaming in the soft light and pupils blown ever so wide. Her Master’s flushed, warm like they only ever are after a feeding, warm enough to feel when they lay their cheek against her thigh and breathe in ever so deep.

“C’mon tell me what you want,” she taunts, reaching down-down to stroke their hair, cup their nape. They’re so warm, fed so well, and now they want just that little bit more. When they’re feeling so warm and floaty, so nice and languid.

They’ve told her, between hungry kisses, that feeding isn’t always like that. Sometimes feeding is just about staying healthy, full of blood, sometimes it’s just snatching something off the street and scarfing down a meal. Other times though, preciously rare times, feeding can be so good, so very, very good.

“Please Darling, let me taste you,” they moan, nuzzling against her thigh, but not moving an inch, not without permission. Her Master’s sweet like that, old fashioned even. They don’t come without permission.

“You’ve already tasted me Master,” and her giggle thrills high pitched as they huff so irritated. As the puff of air brushes her too sensitive clit and teases her right back. Not on purpose, or not really, but happens all the same.

And she rocks into it, humming low in her throat and teasing her poor Master with what they want most. There, right there, but so far away still. Oh poor, poor Master.

“ _Darling_ ,” they whine stretching the word out into a whole sentence, a whole plea, but they must take a peak at her face too and know she’s as serious as can be. She wants words, they know that, but words are never their strong suit. Or rather, words are too strong a suit.

Her Master’s very good with their words, when they’re in control, when they’re charming someone. They can dazzle and smarm and steal hearts with a verse, but when it’s just the two of them, together like this, as vulnerable as this, words run right away from them. They know what they want and she does too, but oh, do they have to take the time to think about how best to say?

“Let me taste your _cunt_ ,” Master says, enunciating every word in their precise way, “please Darling, let me eat you out, let me make you cum again. Please, please, please.”

Though that gets thrown out the window when they dissolve into begging against her thigh, words half muffled but loud enough. And she smiles, slow and lazy, satisfied and happy, as she pretends to consider. Stroking the nape of their neck and letting her eyes flutter shut.

Easy, it’s so easy to slide her fingers up and grab a fistful of her Master’s hair, so easy to roll her hips into their eager mouth. Their pleasure-relief-yes buzzes in the back of her head, a constant connection to her Master, and it sets a pattern to her hips. Tells her when to grind down or ease back, how hard to tug and pull on their hair.

It's only second nature to match her Master’s rhythm. Only right to sigh, content and satisfied as that familiar, beloved mouth devours her cunt as thoroughly as her blood.


	2. Robot Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy might be synthetic but oh there ain't nothing fake about the way he begs his Daddy to fuck him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cismasc robot / cismasc human
> 
> petnames: Daddy, Baby Boy
> 
> cw: Daddy kink, slight manipulation, blow jobs

He looks good on his knees, so fucking good. Big green eyes piercing in the dark, impossibly soft lips. God he’s a vision, fuck he’s _perfect_.

“Daddy, Daddy please,” he pants, beg-whimper-whines, and God, you wanna give him the world don’t you? If it’d make him happy, if it’ll keep him calling you that. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.

You’re not his fucking father, or his maker, but you’ll fuck him like a Daddy if that’s what he wants.

When he’s on his knees, this thing your brother made, pawing at your pants, this thing with such a gorgeous face. Green eyes that glow, brown hair so soft, and an electric hum that buzzes right through you. From head to toe, cock to balls, until you’re a live wire, ready and waiting to explode.

You don’t know who’s face this is, if it’s one your brother made up all himself or one he stole off somebody else. Whole sale or pieced together? You’re not sure and it probably doesn’t matter, because he’s so lovely in his own synth way. Basking in neon green, mesh-composite throat squeezing perfect-tight as he swallows down-around your cock.

Gotta bite down a moan as he does, then another one when he groans, throat humming when it’s already so wet and tight. Not sure why you try, not like there’s anybody to hear, but it feels less lewd if you’re quiet. Less of a taboo if you do.

Because this thing shouldn’t exist, unregistered and unmarked, this synth is so very illegal, but you can never seem to care-remember-bother with that. When he’s on his knees for you, pawing at your thighs or mouthing at your jaw, whispering-begging-asking for Daddy’s cock, or his fingers, or just his thigh.

He’ll be a good boy, he’ll be such a good boy, the _best_ for Daddy. And you always swear this time is the last, you’ll grow a spine, you’ll learn to say “ ** _No_** ” after this time. But then he comes crawling and comes batting those eyes, pouting so sweet, and you can’t help yourself.

This time was supposed to be the one you said No, for real. It wasn’t supposed to happen after this, you couldn’t keep fucking your brother’s synth just because it asked.

“Daddy,” he breathes, like a blessing, like a curse, and fuck it sounds so good. Makes your cock twitch-throb- _ache_ and forget all about the _“last time_ ” bullshit you keep pedling to yourself.

You’ve got a pretty boy on his knees for you, calling you Daddy, and that judders up your spine like nothing else. You’re not his single coded user, but he acts like you are, like you’re the only thing he could ever need. It’s a rush, a heady-thready thing that catches in your throat and makes up your mind for you.

“Go ahead, go on,” you choke, hoarse and half-strangled. Because the relief, the euphoric _joy_ that washes over him is so much. It’s everything. His smile, his dazzle-sparkling eyes.

"Thank you Daddy, thank you, thank you, thank you," he sighs like a prayer, diving in with all that gorgeous enthusiasm.

Peppering kisses along the wet underside of your cock, lifting your thighs like it's nothing, dragging you closer. He's strong, he's a synth, it's nothing for him. To hold you down, trap you against your chair and suck your cock. As hard, as deep, as much as he wants.

And _fuck_ does he want.

You're fighting a losing battle, trying to keep those your eyes open while the pretty boy goes down on you. Not gonna work, he's too good. Mouth's so warm, so perfect. Feels real, better than real. All silky soft skin and too dexterous tongue.

Okay so let your head fall back, let him do whatever he wants, just enjoy it. Relax, you got nowhere to be, relax, just feel it. The warmth of his mouth, slick and wet right? Bobbing on your dick, up-down, perfect. All the way down too, without a gag, without a choke.

Only one choking is you when your cock bumps the back of his throat, when he swallows and God fuck that's the good shit!

"Good boy, Daddy’s boy, good boy" you whisper, broken and choking. Can't even help yourself. He's sucking the soul from you, ain't he? So good, so good. Pretty boy's so good with his pretty mouth.

And oh, you can’t help yourself, you really can’t. Even when it feels impossible to pry your eyes open, you manage it, because you gotta see what he looks like. Gotta see those pretty, green eyes all half shut and half hazed with pleasure, and those lips. Fuck those _lips_.

He's drooling 'round your cock, pretty lips all slick and shiny, all perfect red. Your brother did a spectacular job on him. Made him so damn realistic. Made him so fucking perfect.

"Gonna—fuck," you gasp, can't get it out, can't give him a proper warning. But don't worry, he's smart, look at him, feel the little synthetic puff of breath against your skin when he takes you all the way. Oh god, oh fucking god.

Good, so—just look at him. Those eyes, that's love, ain't it? Love and devotion, coded right into him even if he wasn’t coded to you. He loves you, he's devoted to you. He wants you to come down his throat.

Lucky, lucky you.

You're there, right there, just a little **_m_** —

"Fuck!"

— ** _ore_** and you're cumming, and you're grabbing hold of his lovely soft hair. Fisting it, holding him there, 'gainst your crotch, on your cock. He's got you pressed as close as he can, nose flush against your skin, but you drag him just that little bit closer. Buck into the tight wetness, the hot perfectness of his pretty mouth.

And you cum. And you cum. And you cum.

Down his throat, pretty perfect throat. While he moans all static and perfect. While he whines and whimpers on your cock like it's the best fucking thi—thing. God. God.

"Good boy," you slur, barely catching your runaway breath. Feels so good, impossible good.

Was it good for him?

Look at him. Oh just look at him and all of your hard work. Might as if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, might ask him even.

Let's see if he can answer, what do you think? Yes? No? Poor thing looks so fucked out, big dark eyes and slack lips even after he lets your cock pop free. Ohh that’s nice, the sound of your cock slipping free from your brother’s illegal synth, the one you can never say no to. Naughty, naughty.

"Are you—fuck, how," and the words are too hard, getting them to make sense is so hard. Hmm but nothing should be too hard right now, right? Your good boy took care of that.

And maybe he'd wanna take care of more, hmm? His mouth's hanging open, nothing in it, the good boy does swallow. And he's still holding you, fingers digging into your hips, holding on for dear life.

"Thank you Daddy," he moans, and drops his cheek on your thigh. And nuzzles into your spent cock.

Oh God.

"Y-you’re welcome baby boy," you rasp-gasp and promise yourself this is the last time. For real, the very last time.


	3. Underwater Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd do anything for her, right? Anything she asked, get her her anything she wanted. No matter what, no matter who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cisfem siren / nb human 
> 
> petnames: Treasure
> 
> cw: cannibalism, blood (kink), hypnotism/manipulation, asphyxiation

She’s only here when the full moon’s already so high or there’s no moon to be seen. Only twice a month that you can scramble down to the shore, away from your home, out into the dark following her song. Such a beautiful, gorgeous thing.

Every time you hear it, when she sings it to call you, the words are different, but they’re so familiar. Creeping-curling instead your head, washing through like a fresh spring tide and clearing out every other thought you might have. When she sings, all you can do is listen, and go to her.

Tonight the sky’s empty, except it’s not. Tonight the sky’s full of stars and she’s waiting for you by the shore, on two legs, with wet hands and a wide-mouthed smile. So much wider than human, impossibly wide, but that’s part of her guile. Part of what draws you in close-closer.

Tonight you only have part of a leg for her, a meaty thigh yes, but only that. At least it’s her favourite piece. Because she can rip into it, make a mess of it she says.

“Hello my treasure!” you call breathless and breath taken, to see her standing on the shore, half in the water, entirely waiting for you.

She turns with her smile and nothing else. Body on display as ever, and your heartbeat slithers into your throat, almost hard enough to choke, but you don’t stumble. You clutch your present tighter, wrapped securely, and plunge through the shallows to meet her. Soaking yourself to the skin, getting salt in your eyes and the sting on your lips, but you can’t pay attention to that.

She’s reaching out to you with long fingered hands, iridescent webbing shedding rainbows in the barely there light. She’s cooing at you, words that aren’t any human tongue as you wade closer, come into her reach. Silver dances off her scales as she snatches and you let go; give her your present, let her reel you in.

Shark teeth gleam and thin lips split as she opens her mouth and opens the cloth. The bloodied rags get cast out to see and her teeth get set into the fresh meat. Shearing through so easy, making a mess so bloody; spray on her face, drips down her chest, and flecks splattering your face.

Growls and groans, slurps and snarls, she devours her present with the same hunger as ever. One bite, two, and she’s crunching through a health femur, buckshot sharp in the quiet space between you but no louder than the waves crashing around you. Nobody who heard would ever dream of what made the noise, or rather, who.

You watch her, adoring as ever, as she sucks the gore off her fingers, laps it up from her palms and down her wrists. Such a clever tongue, so long and pointed, perfect for getting into the difficult little bone spaces and between her too many teeth. It’s long enough to brush her chest without dropping her head, and a pointed barb that’s got you hooked.

“Treasure,” you moan, when finally she’s finished and turns her wide-blind eyes on you. To the space just beside you.

She doesn’t understand mortal tongue and you couldn’t hope to know her merfolk words, but she thrills deep in her throat and lunges quick as a snake. There’s no time to brace, not that you would, and you let her take you down into the water. Laugh as she laps at your face, gasps when her tongue slips into your mouth.

The barbs don’t catch anymore, she’s _careful_ now, and her teeth don’t shred your lips, she’s learned how to be soft. Because she needs to be soft with you, her precious human dear, the one that brings her such tasty presents and never once runs from her. She likes that the most, that you never run; only prey runs.

A croon rumbles in her chest and she’s holding you underwater. Forcing your face down-down into the shallow-shore deeps. And the first time, the very first time, you panicked. You fought her and screamed and swallowed half the sea, and she hadn’t liked that one bit, you were only lucky to be too pretty to eat.

The second time you’d gasped a whole lungful of salt, the third you only coughed up a small splat, and by now, you know how to hold your breath and let the waves wash over. Even though every part of you is screaming to fight, shouting to run, and burning for a breath, you don’t listen to any of it. Not instinct nor common sense, not even the solid pit of anxiety that sits leaden and sturdy in the bottom of your stomach.

She could kill you so-so easy, your deep-down treasure like nothing the land’s ever seen. She could rend and ravage you like the sea she’s so clearly a part of. The razor’s edged rocks along the cliffs couldn’t tear you cleaner than she, the pounding waves couldn’t break your bones finer than her, but she doesn’t-doesn’t-doesn’t.

She drowns you under, holds you tight. With her claws digging into the meat of your arms, with her body pressed cool-skin close. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do, but wait, and drift, and listen to her croon.

In the water, right in your ear. Under the water she’s clearer, under the water you can almost understand those words. Taste the shape of them in your mouth, feel the slide of her fingers between your lips. Her claws hold your tongue down-down and her teeth graze your jaw as she speaks, whispers all of her secrets to you.

About how good a pet you are for her, how good a killer. Bringing her all the best cuts of meat, keeping her secret. And her keeping yours. Because you don’t care for the chase but you love the kill, because you don’t want the thoughts and she can take them away. Under the water, under the waves, with the blood you offered her on her lips and the magic she’s made of rocking your hips.

Or no, no, no, no, that’s not her magic, that’s only you. Her magic is in your head, flushing out all the terrible things you think. About the long faces and grim set mouths, the mothers weeping for children and husbands cursing this threat they can’t find. You don’t feel bad about any of it, you never have, and that’s wrong of you, isn’t it?

So very bad of you. You think, you’re not sure, and that’s what makes it so hard to keep thinking, isn’t it?

Oh but you don’t have you, don’t need to when she’s here. Your treasure, whispering about how tasty your gift was. Your deep-dark girl, guiding your rutting hips against nothing, against the water. Your siren song, twisting you, turning you over while your human lungs burst for a breath and your heart flops in your chest.

You can’t see in the water, not the dark, but her eyes are there. Gleaming-glowing like something to fear, with a mouth full of teeth and bones in her hair. Mmm but she’s your treasure, yours and yours alone.

Kissing you, and breathing air into your burst lungs.

Singing to you, and shooing every last thought from your head.

Loving you, and making you just as much a monster as her.


	4. Botanical Babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's go in the gardener, you'll find something waiting~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: multiple nb flower nyphs / nb human
> 
> petnames: Gardener 
> 
> cw: vague sex pollen, foursome, oral, passion and adoration.

Their kisses are poison, everybody knows that, but you can’t never seem to stop. Not when Cynth catches you by the jaw with fingers too slender and features too fine and devours your mouth down to every last whine. Not when Elle plasters to your back and works your neck raw, nipping and biting and bleeding your bare. Or even when Mis settles between your legs with a smile so sweet and a mouth so wicked.

They’re wretched, but so beautiful. They’re cruel, but so kind. And what’s a poor gardener to do but oblige? These are your charges after all, different than you expected but yours all the same. And if you can feed the roses, why not them?

“Will you come for us, Dearest?” Cynth purrs, right up against your throat, and what can you do but shudder in their grasp?

Three sets of hands and three warm-wet mouths, whispering filth or dripping venom, but never-not ever poisoning you. You’re their Gardener, precious caretaker, you are theirs and theirs alone. Though you’ve been hired by the Queen herself to take this unruly garden to task, though you’re expected to hack and chop and beat back the press of bush and brush. Though you’re only theirs because you got lucky, not because of any special thing you possess.

Not the brightest, or the prettiest, you will confess, but they’ll never hear such things. To them, you are the best of the best. You are the only human to come plunging and plundering into their garden that they haven’t strewn across the lawn. Blood and bits and viscera galore, all dripping-soaked through with poison of course.

No no, they like _you_ , they _love_ you.

“Please do,” Mis croons, licking up stray drops of your slick and cocking their head too far. A bell blossom blowing in the wind can flail any which way and never break, it’s what they were made for, but a human shaped thing shouldn’t do what these do. Cynth is clinging to your side, whispering their filth in your ear, but they’re growing around your thighs too.

Thick vines to hold your legs open for Mis, delicate blooms puffing pollen in your face. It is flowersing season, after all, and the poor things need help. Some orchards have tenders climbing ladders in the dark, painting pollen into sleeping blossoms, and waiting for the budding come morning. You, dear darling Gardener, get to plunge into the wilds of your garden and be so much more hands on.

And there are hands on your chest, stroking your nipples with the feather-like caress of single grass blades. Stroking you-stoking you higher-higher, burning you up as you _are_ the only fire they’ll ever start.

Elle mewls and Cynth coos and Mis dives back in with all their impish enthusiasm, and you writhe in their loving grip. Breathing in pollen, sleeked in their poison, and cumming for them.

Back arched and muscles taut, lungs bursting and oh fuck _cumming_.

“Thank you thank you,” somebody choruses, shushing winds through trees. Lips catch yours and you taste sweet. Hands caress your thighs, your cheek, down the trembling slide of your stomach. Six hands, bumping into each other. Three mouths talking and kissing and praising you dizzy.

Three flower nymphs devoted and dedicated to their lovely and well-loved Gardener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers in question are Hellebore, Hyacinth, and Mistletoe, all poisonous plants which is rather quite sexy of them I think.


	5. Spectral Embrace + Sexy Sword Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Careful what ye kill on the high seas lad, lest it follow ye home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cisfem human / transfem human
> 
> petnames: Darling, Dearest
> 
> cw: blood, mentioned maiming, guns, vague homophobia. They're ghosts though so it's fine.

“My point, darling,” she laughs, dancing away from a sloppy swing and twirling around her poor opponent. Swords really wasn’t fair for the dear thing but oh, they were _so_ much fun.

Better than pistols, or any other gun, and somehow more intimate than the fisticuffs her darling so loved. She, herself, was far from a Lady born or wed, but there was something so much sweeter about the clang and clash of steel. The press of a supple breast when they caught edge on guard and stepped in dangerously close.

Close enough to see the smolder of lust in her darling’s eyes, close enough to taste the salt on her darling’s breath. Such a lovely thing she’d been, clinging to rigging ropes and scrambling up to crows’ nests. A sworn and bred pirate her darling had lived, and a sword cut _dead_ pirate she’d become.

Toppling over the edge into the waves, down-down into the depths and Davie Jones’ lonely locker.

Oh but that was past them, wasn’t it? Now her darling is with her again and they’re here, together, in the house of their murderer. Re-enacting just one of a dozen deaths.

“Yer a wretched cheat, dearest!” her darling yowls, yanking the fancy fencer’s sword from between her ribs and letting it drop. The thin thing fades before it can hit the clean ballroom floor, she lifts a much heftier cutlass, and off they go again.

Parrying and stabbing and laughing themselves breathless, though they don’t have breath to loose anymore. Nor energy, nor blood, though her doublet is soaked in a perpetual stain and her heart never stops its sluggish bleed. Well, at least there’s no pain either.

She lops off an arm wholesale and her darling cheats with a pistol shot to the chest, one that knocks her off her feet with a hysteric screech. They’re both howling when her darling drops too, a clean shot between the eyes.

“Shall we say draw?” she suggests, starfish sprawled on the floor.

“Aye, draw dear,” is her answer, and a lapful of bonny pirate lass of course. A lapful that’s lighter than it ever was on the ship, light enough to float away into the ether, but she reaches up for those hips she knows so well, and holds her darling firm.

She doesn’t let her darling squirm away, won’t let her slip away again. Just the once was unbearable enough.

Oh but now, now they’re together like they never could be before. On the ship oh yes, the crew knew of course and celebrated them like anybody else, but the crew wasn’t the world. The crew wasn’t the navy paid to hunt them and the crew weren’t the people at port looking for a fight and taking any excuse.

The crew wasn’t one bastard of a man dogging them across the high seas, and eventually getting exactly what he’d wanted.

Hmm, but how’s that worked out for him? Her dear smirks, and she winks, and the kiss they share is sweeter than the freshest sea air. Though there’s plenty of salt in their kiss, and copper aye. Blood and ocean water, coughed up and filling dead lungs.

Arabelle, her **_darling_** Arabelle, cups her cheeks and kisses her deep. Tasting like salt yes, but like wildflowers and honey too, like thunderclouds and lightning cracks. Like everything she was in life and has the chance to be again in death. Her darling, sweet Arabelle.

They kiss, wild and wicked, clothes soaking through with salt spray and life’s blood, but they don’t mind. The sickly warmth is familiar now, a comfort to chase the cold that follows them everywhere.

Fingers wind into her hair and pull, she takes hold of her darling’s hips and grinds them down-down onto her. Hard enough to feel her darling’s clit swollen and leaking through her cut-offs. Hard enough to make her own cunt clench and ache for something to fill it up, stretch it out, give her a _ball_ of a time.

As they _are_ in the ballroom, laying on the well-shined floor and not casting even a hint of reflection. Or, as the sun’s still up, not yet. Later they will, when the bastard’s forced home again, when he has no choice left. They’ll come as close to life as they can be and continue terrorising the wretch, after, when he’s home.

Now, for now, she reaches for the laces of her darling’s cut-offs and works them open one handed, using the other to guide their rhythm. A deliriously slow dance that would scandalize every well-bred lord and lady, have them tittering behind their peacock feathered fans and glancing jealously out the corner of their eyes. Oh the fortunes they’d give to learn steps as intimate as this, but no, never, how could they ever?

Poor bastards, that they’d never have something as lovely as her Arabelle above them, nothing as sweet as her clit hard in their hand and twitching at their touch. Hmm but they could empty their vaults and spill their coffers bare and they still wouldn’t have a fraction of enough to buy this. They don’t _deserve_ it.

“Dearest,” sighs past her darling’s lips, a throaty whisper of the word she loves so well from the girl she loves even better. And a shallow thrust, fucking into the warm tightness of her hand. Which is wet already with blood and water, better lubricant than they could find, or dream up in their meant-to-be-a-punishment purgatory.

Another shallow thrust and she’s dragged into another kiss, one that burns as much as it soothes. A kiss with a tongue licking into her mouth and snatching every word right out of her throat. A kiss with moans that are silver smoke and expensive spice, and a few bites that are just perfect delights.

They rut against each other with a well-practiced ease, pulling buttons free and baring more-more-more flesh to their game. Her darling immediately lavishes her tits the second they’re free, spilling past her broke-boned corset and into a sea-cold mouth. Once they were warm, both of them, but cold sweets her better now; her darling’s as cold as the water that day and she loves it.

Cold fingers plucking at her nipples, cold tongue laving at her tits, and cold lips, and cold breaths puffing against her forever bleeding chest.

“Lovely girl,” she coos, petting her darling’s wild hair and dropping her head back. Into the floor then through the floor, letting her eyes open only a pinch, but seeing…oh _seeing_.

He’s there, staring at them slaw-jacked and already hard. Their hunter, their chaser, their cold-blooded killer. Staring with dark-bagged eyes and pale face, clutching at the door frame and his chest. Poor dear, he must’ve had such a fright, must finally be able to see them.

“Erika,” he whispers, shattered and shuddered. Whispering the name of the woman he’d so wanted for a wife, and the pirate captain he’d despised enough to end “his” life.

Watching that woman-captain, and her lover, on his ballroom floor together. Eyes darting from Arabelle’s rocking hips to her own bloody chest, bleeding still from his one perfect shot. He’d killed them, the wretched bastard, Arabelle for daring stand against him, and Erika simply because women could never be captain.

Well how wrong, and how lovely for him now. To see his dead fiancée and her lover in his house. Humping against each other as spectres phantasmic, loving each other the way they had on their ship.

“We have a guest, darling,” Erika whispers, stroking her Arabelle’s cheek and tipping her chin up-up to see him there. Rock hard in his britches like a horny schoolboy, struck by fright like a superstitious old maid.

“Aye, we’ll give ‘im a show,” her darling cackles, ripping through pants and laces and stays to put on the greatest show of their day.


	6. How to Train your Werewolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: transmasc human / cisfem werewolf
> 
> petnames: N/A
> 
> cw: blood, gore, vague racism, no kink (sorry)

There are tales about the Pack. Stories that children whisper to each other around campfires, rumours that float through the stalest midsummer nights. About the Pack, a huge family that lives out in the sprawling woods, a little community all their own set around Moonshine Lake.

The head of the family is always the same, old Ms Murph who’s strong and tall even though she’s rounding about ninety. She’s the mother, and grandmother, and aunt, cousin, sister, great-grandmother, confident, decider. She comes to town in her beat up truck and a half-dozen grans always with her.

They all scatter into the shops, off with their lists while she heads into the grocery pick up their bulk orders. Of meat, and meat, and lookie here, more meat. The children get the provisions and drinks, but ole Murph’s the only one that goes to collect the meat. Then she hauls it back into her truck and heads right back up the still a dirt road to her lake house.

The grans have their fun in the town, heckling the locals, visiting friends, and by the time sunset, they’re all racing off on that dirt road again. And nobody’s ever invited along, not Lee Mac though he’s dating a daughter, or Mary Lou though she’s the family doctor. People know where the houses are, the Pack doesn’t chase anybody away from the place, and in fact they’ll call you along to have a spot of lunch if they spot you, but nobody ever gets invited.

Rudy’s not invited, when he goes trudging along the dirt. When his eye’s black and his stomach’s bruised and he smells like floor polish. He’s swiping tears and hating the shitty cell reception as he hikes, but he ain’t invited. Not even after all the time he’s spent with Lizbeth, by the lake, in her house, meeting all her family.

They been going steady for months. Ever since he blew into town looking for his fresh start and she crashed into him at the minimart. She’s funny and kind and playful as all hell, the kind of gal his mom would’ve loved, and he thinks he could be happy with her. It’s why he decided to hike out to the lake instead of his own damn house at damn near midnight.

Late shift and he had to be the one on lock up, late shift and he had to be the one left back with Joe. Racist old rat that never knew when to leave shit the hell alone. He had a whole foot on Rudy, and a half hundred pounds, and could hit like a damn truck. And Joe’d been at the hardware longer’n Rudy’d been alive, had grown up with the owner, married into the family even.

Rudy could snitch but the Boss probably wouldn’t do nothing, might even get fired over it, and then he’d be shit outta luck. So, instead of sitting at home and stewing in his own loathing, he’s out in the forest, making his way to his girlfriend’s house.

Lizbeth wouldn’t be mad he didn’t call ahead, though he was still trying, she was probably still up. She might fuss over him, like she had when her brother pushed him into the lake full clothed. Or her face might purse up, like her mother’s did whenever somebody in town said something a tick too rude for liking.

Though, purse was probably the wrong word. Lena’s face wouldn’t purse, her lips would peel away from her teeth and her eyes would narrow, and she’d make a noise y’could feel more’n hear. A low down noise that made all the hair on your body stand up attention, and your heart drop right out your ass.

Yeah, maybe Lizbeth would be like that. Might be fun to see his sunshine girl a little mad, particularly on his behalf. Maybe her green eyes would gleam, maybe she’d growl, that might be nice. Been a good long while since anybody’d been mad on his behalf.

Maybe she’d be mad at him having to trek the whole half hour through the lonely woods to her place too, and they could start talking about all those heart pounding, real relationship things. Like him wanting to move in with her, his place or hers, either’d be just fine. And maybe, just maybe they could start planning a future together. The whole five miles.

He thinks about that instead of the ache in his everything while he walks, limps really. Not how the croaking of frogs makes him antsy or the buzzing of bugs putting his teeth on edge, or the faintest, furthest away howl that raises his hair all the way up. Least it ain’t pitch black, and he’s much obliged to the moon for that, cuz he’s got his lil key fob flashlight but that’s barely anything out here.

Lets him see right in front his feet, along the tamped down dirt he’s walked dozens of times already, but not much else. Not into the trees on either side, pressing in close and secret, not up into the branches where birds’re tweeting in their sleep. Certainly not behind him, and certainly not fast enough to avoid the person running up on him.

He’s barely got the time to realise the thumps are footsteps, _racing_ footsteps, before something’s crashing into him and sending him down hard in the dirt.

“I wasn’t finished with you boy!” Joe, the fucking asshole _Joe_ , snarls, and his voice’s booming from up above. Where Joe’s most likely standing, probably with a ugly frown on his run red face and a squint to his watery blue eyes. There’s a light, casting off to the side, but it ain’t held and Rudy has no idea where his fob went.

He’s there, in the woods, alone with the racist old bastard that already whooped his ass once. He’s alone in the woods with no cell service and nobody to come looking for him until after he needs ‘em too.

He’s alone.

“I was generous, giving you a few months to wise up and get out, but I suppose your kind’s too thick to see a good turn when it—“

Joe’s there, then Joe’s gone, and Rudy’s left staring into the darkness.

Listening to: branches cracking, Joe yelling, a growling howl that slips right between his ribs and squeezes his heart.

Hearing the: thunder of his breath, wet rip of _something_ , a scream that starts and stops in all of five seconds.

Then he’s: scrambling for the torch Joe came with, scrabbling in the dark, ready to scream himself.

He gets the light, a hefty maglight that’s solid in his hand, and whips it around in the dark, looking for something, _anything_. And he sees…a trail. Scruffed trees and smashed prints from something, something big, and…and there’s blood.

Speckled and flecked in the dirt, fresh and wet, and it’s leading off the path into the trees. And he should get up and run. The lake can’t be too far away now, he can make it if he runs, if whatever took Joe spends some time with him. But he can’t, not because he cares about Joe, he just can’t run.

Something’s too tight in his chest, and something’s too quick in his gut, and he’s struggling to his feet. Getting dirt on already dirty clothes and jostling his bruised up ribs, but he manages, and shines the light as he plunges off the path. Following the trail of blood and disturbed underbrush.

There’s a scrap of Joe’s shirt, there’s a torn up piece of denim, here’s more blood slick, sick and wet. And here’s a clearing, natural made, place where Lizbeth’d brought him to have a picnic before. And in the clearing’s what’s left of Joe, torso with half his limbs, head with the skull cracked open.

Over Joe though, over Joe’s something huge, and blond, and smeared with blood. A thing hunched over and snuffling, deep-bass growling; some _thing_ that whips around pins him down with the sharpest green eyes he ever done se—

“Lizbeth?!” he croaks, not looking at the hunk of meat ~~Joe~~ clamped between massive teeth.

The blond thing blinks at him, looks him up and down, lingering on his eye? Then his ribs, where his clothes are covering up that bruise, thank you very much, but it still looks. Then it drops the hunk and pads over on all fours to him, standing tall as he is while on all fours still.

Rudy expects to be torn apart then, the second of the dog? Christ Almighty, it’s a wolf! A huge, bigger than big, blond wolf that’s the same shade of blond as his Lizbeth, with the very same eyes. A wolf that’s grinning at him like wolves shouldn’t really be able to do, wolf that’s chuffing in his face and easing forward to snuffle against his cheek.

Warm breath, burning warm, and blood tinged, ain’t the most pleasant sent, but he can’t lean away for the same insane reason he came looking in the first place. The wolf, the one that’s maybe Lizbeth, huffs, then she whines, staring right at his bruised up eye. And by God, it really is Lizbeth. And Jesus in Heaven, she killed a man for him, to protect him?

“Thank you baby,” is all he can think to say, reaching up with a hand that’s shaking nearly too much to move. He does manage it, raises his hand up-up high enough to stroke along her blood-soaked muzzle and further down between her eyes, scritching that spot that she loves right at the base.

A gigantic tongue lolls out and more copper breath’s huffed in his face, but Rudy doesn’t care, he’s grinning at her. He’s smiling so hard it’s hurting his cheeks. His girl’s a real creature of the night and she just tore a man apart for him! Oh his ma would’ve loved the hell outta her.

Rudy ain’t sure how long they spend there, when he leans all of his wait against Lizbeth or when she coaxes him to sit, curling around him like a protective fur coat. He keeps petting her and she never budges, only the wag of her tail keeping her moving. And it’s nice, impossibly nice, to sit with her like that, to understand so much and so little all at once.

There’s so much to talk about, and so much more he probably doesn’t wanna know but he’d really like to start with whether she’d want to live together. There’s apparently even more to consider than he originally thought.

Half a lifetime later’s when they finally get forced to break up their romantic, midnight rendezvous. When another person comes pushing through the trees, though Rudy only knows someone’s coming when Lizbeth perks up. Ears swivelling, head lifting, but she doesn’t look concerned, just expecting.

“Oh hell girl, d’you have to pick the most cantankerous bitch in town for your freebie?” and Rudy officially checks out when ole Murphy clears the trees. She’s scowling and got her hands propped on her hips, but Rudy’s heard her complain enough to know she’s not really mad. Murphy’s a quiet one when she’s mad, and she’s making too much noise now for that.

“Well, nothing for it,” Murphy sighs, and lets her scowl drop into a smile, “make a good mess of it, and meet us back at the house.”

Then there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, helping up and steering him off towards the lake, still through the trees, and Rudy lets himself go.

He keeps his eyes on Murphy and the light trained at his feet, and does not turn back even when he hears the unmistakable sound of bones crunched in teeth. Just one foot in front of the next.

“Looks like we got a party to plan young man,” Murphy says when they’re nearly to the houses, close enough to hear the lapping lake.

Rudy can hear the smile in her voice, the wicked ole grin that ole Murphy’s best known for. A secret joke that only she knows, and lord, the _things_ she must know. 

“We always have one for new family,” she says, as they break the treeline and grabbing him in a hug, “and you’re family now. Welcome to the Pack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rudy is trans because I just think he should be.


	7. It "came" from Outer Space + Just in Slime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She ain't a fucking hero, or even a good person. A good person wouldn't love the alien bonded to their bones, and they certainly wouldn't kill to feed it. Thank Christ she's never been a good person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: nb alien / cisfem human 
> 
> petnames: Host, Sweetie, Baby
> 
> cw: blood, gore, cannibalism, cunnilingus, bloodplay, light sadomasochism.

Meeting was chaotic: confusion and terror and hungry, so-so hungry. Coming together was agony: cells ripping and organs dying, hungry and eating, consuming-consuming. And living was hard: running and hunting and preying and hiding.

But she wouldn’t change this for the world. Her Malice was her Malice and no fucking body was gonna take her Malice from her.

“ ** _Mine_** ,” Malice growls in the back of their head, squeezing tight under their clothes. Holding their human so close.

They’d almost lost her. When the stupid company came, prying and trying to take their human away. The company had tried to rip Malice away from their Host, their best, their precious, and they would never let that happen.

“I know sweetie,” their Host purrs, brushing soft lips across their shared knuckles, sighing in time with Malice’s delight.

They’re stalking tonight, hunting their next meal. One to keep them full and sated for the next few days. They have him picked out of course, a man that police wouldn’t touch, one they should’ve locked up. Their Host had heard about him on tv, looked him up on the internet.

He was a bad man and he would taste delicious.

“ _Yes baby_ ,” their Host hums, silently, into the space they share.

“ ** _Yes baby_** ,” Malice echoes, shining teeth in the dark, as they seep out of Host’s human pores, as they cover and fill into their real skin.

Sleek and black, black and purple. A perfect camouflage for this imperfect night. Who notices a shadow bounding up a wall? Who remembers it slipping through a window into a twentieth storey hall?

Nobody and no one, they’ve come to learn. If they’re careful, like Host keeps them, and lethal, like Malice makes them, then nobody ever connects the dots. Who would suspect the woman living alone in her studio across the city? Who could put her at a single scene of a single crime, ones without bodies and flawless every time?

This one is the same as every other; meticulous and delicious. Floors creak so they don’t use it, slinking across the ceiling instead. Men scream so they don’t give him the chance, taking off his head in one perfect bite. Jaw unhinged and teeth glistening, he’s death between one sleeping breath and the next.

Then they drop, onto the bed, and they make a feast of what’s left.

Mmm, brains are so good, keep them so nice-fed. Brains and all those tasty juices, soaking and marinating and making something so yummy. Blood’s good too, human blood is so good. Copper, always so much copper, more than enough to replenish their Host’s supply.

Bones crunch so satisfying and meat tears so wonderful, and they eat like the starving thing they are. Malice working through the body in sections and pieces. Heads first, always heads first, then the limbs one by one. Rip it apart at the top joint and hear the wet grizzle pop.

Hmm, Host used to shudder through it, the sound-smell-sight, but now she loves too. She reaches and she rips, she opens their mouth and laps it up with their tongue. Eating makes them full and their precious Host never wants them to go hungry.

After limbs then torso, tearing into the gut and slurping every tasty that comes spilling out. Intestines and livers, kidneys, spleens, and more-more-more blood always. This one spots the sheets, leaves a beautiful track-trace-remembrance of their sweet meal; the only thing lookers will find.

Host picks the ribs out and sucks them clean, cracks bone to suck out marrow and Malice shudders with her moan. The low down growl of it, the dark dog howl of it.

“ _A snake, sweetie_ ,” Host whispers to them. Yes snake, the earth animal they’re most like. A snake with their fangs, a snake with their venom, and their long, long tongue.

Their Host likes the flex and feel it in her cunt, when they “go down” on her for as long as she’ll let them. They’ll never have their fill of their precious Host, but it’s adorable that she thinks they’ll ever be sated by a taste. Like it’s adorable the way she picks cloth out of blood and peels plastic away from meat.

Malice _eats_ , as one. They rip and tear and swallow until there’s nothing left in the bed. Only shreds of cloth scrap, only the smears of blood they didn’t catch. _Then_ they retreat, back into the carved out spaces they’ve made for themself. Host was so mad when she found out, but she understood, such a good Host.

“Such a good baby,” Host coos, another kiss to the back of her knuckles, then the flat of her palm. Their favourite kind of kiss, because it’s the easiest one for Host to give. She can’t kiss them with lips and tongue and teeth in public, they have to stay hidden, but the knuckles are safe.

When Malice is a glove, or even when Malice is tucked all the way down hiding, they can see feel Host’s kisses. And they feel her satisfaction as she hops off the bed and saunters over to the little safe that’s not even hidden. Right there under the lamp, right there for her to break into with claws and happy sigh.

So many papers instead, stacks of money and folders of information. Some of it is about what he did, some more is about what other people did. Host takes those, tucks them into her jacket, the part that’s not Malice, and scatters the rest on the bed.

She doubts the police will let anything come of it, they covered up the crimes in the first place, but it’s a good message. Strong, dangerous. Another kill from the killer they still can’t find. The one the news calls vigilante, ones the authorities call dead man.

Host will use the folders to track down more meals, but later, after they’ve digested this one. After the heady-thready-ecstasy of a full belly wears off, oh but they have hours until then.

“Yes we do!” Host sing-songs, and takes them to the kitchen. To the fridge, to dig through and get a lobster snack, to root through some cabinets and find a bottle of good wine.

Malice doesn’t care for alcohol, that poison’s nothing compared to their venom, but Host likes the taste, and they like their Host.

“Aw, I like us too baby,” as she cracks the top of her teeth and guzzles down red-red-red. Letting it spill and run, moaning so satisfied when Malice laps up the drops with their tongue that she likes so much.

 _Snaking_ along her throat, at the corners of her mouth, even under the jacket between her breasts. Host shudders and shivers but she’s smiling, she’s giggling when she slams down the bottle and sighing as she leans against the counter. Jacket that’s not Malice between her skin and the granite, spreading her legs out of habit.

Habit because Malice doesn’t need the space, they’re already as close as they could get. Already inside, already in her head, but the gesture is appreciated. A physical tell of how much their Host wants them.

Sweet Host, pretty Host. She spits a snarl through her teeth as her Malice drags claws down her thighs and nips at her clit. Painful in the worst-best way. Enough to bleed and be lapped up immediately, by a tongue that’s long and shiveringly wet.

“ ** _Sweet darling_** ,” Malice coos, re-absorbing Host’s blood, healing the burning welts left by steady claws.

Host though, Host likes the pain. Host enjoys it like Malice does. And she cants her hips, into-into Malice’s mouth, though she doesn’t have to, human instinct can’t help it though. Mmm, but they oblige. Grabbing at breasts, sucking at nipples, and easing into Host’s leaking-eaking cunt.

Host growls, and snatches at a tendril of Malice, grabbing the tentacle and bringing it to her sharp-teethed mouth. To kiss and suck, to fill up her mouth so nobody hears them here. Riding out their full belly afterglow, chasing down their needy pleasure.

Meeting was manic, meeting was panic, but they one now. A hungry one, a lovely one. Together.

_“That’s right baby.”_

“ ** _That’s right baby._** ” 


	8. Masquerade Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cismasc human / gender neutral human / cisfem human
> 
> petnames: Sir, Miss
> 
> cw: secret identity, strangers gon have sex, romance

Who are they? Who are they? And where did they come from?

Yes them, that man, and that lady by his side. Black swirling-curling-peaking past his collar and cuffs, oh my-my, what delicate tattoos he has. Ah but hers, hers are scattered across her golden warm skin like stars in the night, roses and bullets and words from a famous poet.

And he’s dark and dour, green eyes glimmering behind an ornately blown-glass mask. Oh but she’s a golden wonder, bright smile under a butterfly’s wing. They’re standing away from the dance floor, talking between themselves and caught up in their own little world, and you’re content to watch. Of course you are, you’d never dare approach.

Except, when you glance their way again, the man’s smirking at you, and the woman’s grin is cat sharp. They noticed, of course, and you should look away embarrassed, but they don’t seem mad…they’re smiling, at you.

And the woman’s stepping up on tippy-toe to whisper something into his ear, eyes never leaving you. Though there are dancers between the three of you, flounces of colour and glitters of gems, her eyes keep you pinned down. Oh but wouldn’t you rather she do it herself? Slim fingers wrapped around your wrists, holding them tight while she works her wicked magic?

The man doesn’t look over but his smile’s devilish as he listens to his companion, and you wonder, what does he sound like? He seems the type to speak well and praise better, the type that knows all kinds of pretty words and just how to use them. You’d love to hear them, you’d listen to anything he had to say.

And another string of dancers goes prancing by, a scattered rainbow’s worth of colours tittering and twittering. Oh, but when they’re gone, when the sky clears, those beautiful two are gone. Not a curl of black left, not even a glimmer of golden sun.

Their nook is empty and the dancefloor’s full, and of course that’s where they must have went. Who would come to a ball to do anything other than dance? What kind of fool would pass up the chance to hold as lovely a partner as that? Terrible fool, horrible fool.

So, that’s it then? They’re off to dance and all that’s left is one stunning memory between dreary, dragging minutes. Well, at least you have the memory.

“You should learn to be more subtle, little wanderer,” a voice, smooth and deep, poetic and praising. A voice like something rich and thick murmurs beside you, and you want to whirl, be the dramatic, romantic a ball like this deserves, but all you can do is stare.

At the man who was there but now’s right here. Standing beside you, smirk so sharp, and oh aren’t those eyes the loveliest shade of green?

“Naw, it was nice, I like being admired,” another voice, one that’s warm and sweet, one that’s accented so pretty. And the woman’s next to you, a hand on your wrist, a broad smile on her sweet face.

You want to be the damsel, love interest, to swoon or simper and say just the right thing for an answer. Something witty, or suave, maybe even a touch seductive to make their cheeks warm and their eyes droop. Make something warm and quick settle in their stomachs and something else hot and fast flutter in your chest.

Hmm, but you aren’t the damsel, you aren’t sure just what to say, but you can say something at least.

“You’re gorgeous, Miss,” you murmur, and lift your held hand so hers comes with it. Lift up-up until you can press a butterfly kiss to her gloved knuckles.

You’re not sure what you expect, another smile, a cooing thanks, maybe even a kiss in return. You don’t know what she’ll do, this mysterious Miss, but when she tosses her head back in a peeling laugh that shows off the line of her throat and the expanse of her freckles, you’re smitten. Instantly, impossibly so.

You want to make her laugh like that again, want to hear her speak and speak, make her smile. You don’t love her, of course you can’t, but you could. There’s so much you could do for her.

“There is no sweeter delight than a tyger's joyous laughter,” the man says, but said like a quote, like something being recited. And this time you do turn, slowly and without a flare of clothes. You turn and catch one of his half lifted hands and brush a kiss to his tattooed knuckles too.

“And you’re beautiful, Sir,” you add smoothly.

His laugh is softer, a secret, just a huff of breath and a sly smile. But it’s just as lovely as hers, just as beautiful.

And it’s such a shame to come to a ball and leave without a dance, with partners this lovely, but she pulls you, and he herds you, and you’re off to a private spot for a dance all your own. One full of lingering touches as you three creep through the emptied halls, a hand at the small of your back, two voices whispering you on.

Down a hall and cross the manor, up the stairs, giggling and shushing as you go, until you’re all far enough away. Until you’re all spilling into a crisp bedroom where the moonlight’s already spilling in through the drapes someone forgot to pull. Oh but it’s a pretty sight, lovely addition, and none of you want to get rid of it.

Though anybody could look up from the grounds and spot you, maybe. Though anyone could come wandering by and hear your half-swallowed moan, perhaps. There’s a chance of being caught, of course there’s a chance, but isn’t that part of the fun?

To cup her cheeks with half-hesitant hands and kiss her, kiss her, kiss her. Taste the cigarette she was smoking, nicotine on your tongue. Hear her sweet sigh and moan, just like liquid gold.

“Lovely,” the man you don’t have a name for hums, right in your ear, straight down your spine.

He kisses you too, rests his hands on your hips and his lips on your nape, and peppers kisses across your neck-jaw-throat. And his hands are warm, firm where they hold you and pull you against him. And his kisses are light, kitten’s paw light, but sear right down to the bone, until you’re sure you’ll never get him out of your system.

Mmm, not that you’d want to. Not his scent of lavender and spice, not the feel of his slim body pressed tight, fitting so well to the contours of yours. Oh and sandwiching you against his gorgeous companion, the one leaving you panting and aching, wanting. She’s flushed under her monarch wing mask, and when she rips it away, you’re stunned by just how much more lovely she is.

Her brown eyes are deeper without it, her whole face sweeter as she laughs and kisses your temple. A light little thing that’s…that’s soft, and gentle, and makes something ache with want of her.

“Got that right, honey,” she says, catching up your limp wrist and kissing your rough knuckles. She’s so lovely a thing that you would’ve expected her to be soft all over, an even complexion and not a bit of rough treatment. But no, close like this, close _as_ this, you can see the scatter of freckles across her sun-kissed cheeks, and you can feel the callouses worked into her hand.

This woman’s used to worked, built up to it over time and is undoubtedly good at it. Behind, kissing a spot below your ear, the man you don’t know hums a half-bar song and his grip tightens. As he rubs his cheek against your hair, skooching his mask off and onto the floor. You expect the glass to break, but it does not, instead when you glance down, it’s nowhere to be found.

And, when you look up, it’s across the room on the dresser top. And maybe you should worry, about this man and this woman. Maybe you should care about the names you didn’t get, but to be fair, you didn’t give on either, and to be fairer, you don’t think you care.

You quite like being caught between them, kissed by them. They make you feel like the centre of a world…appreciated, and loved, if only for tonight. You’ll let yourself buy into this little fantasy, just for one night.


	9. Tentacle Teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say hello once again to Malice the symbiote and their delicious Host!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: nb alien / cisfem human
> 
> petnames: Darling, baby, sweetheart
> 
> cw: tentacles, overstimulation, triple penetration, ass eating, face fucking. They're In Love

They’re together in the safety of their home. They’ve got their doors locked and drapes drawn and a peaceful softness of just _them_. She should appreciate it, sear it into her brain so she’ll never forget, but she can’t.

There’s an impossible domesticity snuggled up under her covers, sprawled out in her queen sized bed perfect for one, but she can’t enjoy it. Past midnight, oh it’s well past midnight and there’s still work to do, cozied up with her Malice, but that’s not—she’s not. All she can think, all she can feel, is her darling fucking into her with something that’s not even cock _shaped_.

“ ** _Tasty_** ,” Malice growls in her ear, keeping her pinned to the bed with one clawed hand, knocking away the files with a tentacle.

Malice holds her, effortlessly, while she pants-gasps-writhes. Grinding her hips _down_ like that’ll help, rutting against the cool, smooth slide of symbiote flesh. Her darling feels like nothing else in the world, which is accurate because her darling’s not from this world.

Her darling’s from the stars, out and up, somewhere far away from here, and her darling could go back there but no, Malice would rather stay here. On this little mud ball planet with her meat sack Host. Malice’d given up the stars to fuck their Host’s brains out and god _fuck!_

“ ** _The stars can’t compare_** ,” Malice hums, as her back arches up-up, a perfectly inhuman bow.

And the tentacle in her cunt fucks hard, pulses-widens, and she’s whining through grit teeth. The walls aren’t as thick as they’d like, thicker than their old apartment but still too thin, the neighbours can hear if she’s too loud. Malice loves her to be loud, loves all the sounds she can squeeze out of their sweet Host, but they’re a jealous fucker too, nobody but them’s allowed to hear her.

Sometimes it’s easy to be quite, when she can bite her knuckles, howl into the mattress, roar across the city. Right now it’s hard, so-so hard. When her darling’s fucking her open, with a tentacle that’s just perfectly thick, with teeth dragging along her clit. So-so hard to gnaw on her lips and stay quiet enough.

But her darling’s a sweetheart, her darling’s so kind. Slips a tendril between her lips for her to suck and bite and scream into. When the tentacle fucking her grinds-drags- _fucks_.

God shitting. God **_fuck_**.

“ ** _Sweet Host. Pretty Host. Ours, ours, ours.”_**

There’s more words, more things her darling’s saying, but she can’t, she fuck. She bucks into wicked stretch-thrust-fuck and gags on the thicker-thickening tentacle slipping down her throat. Sliding down-down, fucking her face sloppy and sweet. With spit down her chin and tears down her cheeks and slick a mess on her thighs. God fuck.

She’s burning up, burning out, and before she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Malice is giving her so much, fucking her so good, her baby knows _just_ what she likes. It’s too much, so much, and before she would’a been limp by now, not able to writhe and meet every heart flipping thrust. Wouldn’t’ve been able to snarl when claws raked down her back or hands lifted her up-up, nearly in half.

Now though. Oh fuck, well now she can more than keep up. She’s got the stamina, the energy, the fucking baby eating her out and fucking her raw and it’s all too much-not enough at all.

But her baby knows, her darling’s got her. A tongue in her ass, sweet and wet, and hands on her tits, and kisses peppered all-everywhere else. Not a place she’s not being touched, not a bit of her that’s not worshiped by her baby that’s the best baby.

It’s all a judder in her bones and shudder in her blood and a burn in her chest racing-racing on. And it’s the wet slap of flesh on flesh, even if one set’s not from this world. It’s the sound of her choked off-gagged up moans and the sparks bursting across her eyes. A flex in her cunt, rubbing and stroking like no one else could, and a answering twitch in her ass, perfectly synced.

Ohhhh but not just that, not just being fucked, no no no, her darling’s so sweet that they share the rest of it too. How warm-wet- _delicious_ she is to them. The taste of her skin salt and blood, the clench of her cunt hot and good.

Malice lets her fuck and be fucked at the same time. Showing her everything, letting them be One.

So she can see her darling Host, perfect Host, and feel the flush of skin and the growling moans that are a comforting low frequency. One that settles their form and tingles through their whole body. Host is the perfect opposite of high-pitched pain, a delicious warm that doesn’t boil them to nothing.

Host is lovely and Host is loving and they love Host. They want to give her the best, give her nothing but good. They want to cum for them, please-please will she?

A flick-twitch-thrust, yes! Yes she will. Anything for her baby, anything at all. Blood and bone for her baby, cumming undone for her baby.

Which is what she does, with her legs pressed down-down over her shoulders, with her cunt and ass and self on pretty display for her baby. Cumming until her legs shake, head spins, throat aches.

And whining, whimpering, moaning when her darling laps up all of that too, and keeps going so happy. Fucking her through painful-much oversensitive. Kissing her dazed while keeping her awake. Keeping her up with a stamina that never quits, not until they both want it to.

Ohh and they don’t. Not yet. They’ve barely started, and the night’s too short to stop. They have too much to do tomorrow, won’t get to play, so they’ll cram as much as they can into right now. Into making Host cum again-gain-gain, and she’ll give her baby exactly what they want.

Win-win-win.


	10. Sharing a Coffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down in the basement, hidden under your house, is a contract your family made generations and centuries ago. A deal with a dead thing in exchange for something that's been forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: gender neutral human / nb monster
> 
> petnames: N/A 
> 
> cw: blood, gore, violence, supernatural elements
> 
> The creature belongs to my partner and is one of my faves. Dw, they will definitely be seen more later.

In the basement’s where they are, locked up-caged down-buried shut. The basement’s that under the floor and under the dirt. In a coffin-casket-box made of metal…metal, you think. A metal you don’t know, never seen, haven’t found anywhere else.

In the box-casket-coffin is a dead thing, so your mother’s told you. A dead thing bound to your family, your blood. There used to be records, books, explanations about where it came from and why it’s here and most importantly; what it is. All of that’s been lost, mother would say-sigh-hum, and none of it really mattered anyway.

The thing in the basement was something to leave alone and not bother. _“Let the dead rest, dea_ r” was her favourite bedtime story, and it’s stuck with you through all the years.

Every time you wandered down into the basement, after she’d died. Every time you pried up the floorboards and shovelled out the dirt and sat there. Tracing the patterns in the metal, making up sounds for their symbols. You let the dead rest, and there was nothing stopping you from resting with them.

Laying on the cool metal that never warmed, whispering your mother’s stories to yourself while your father drank himself dead upstairs. While your brother got violent, angry, cruel. He leaves in a body bag and you visit him in a mortuary, to confirm that “ _yes, that’s him_.”

Even though you called the ambulance and rode along with the body.

The basement is your one respite from the rest, the place where your blood matters and the family you belong to matters. You’re a child when you start and you’re grown when you stop.

When you decide to claim your birth right. When your father has one drink too many and pushes you down the stairs into the dark. He’s fed up of you spending all your time down there, he’s fed up of you looking so much like your mother. You have her fucking smile and those god damn eyes.

At the bottom of the stairs, in the heavy dark, you pry up the floorboards with the same crowbar as always. A rusty one that hides behind the stairs. And you shovel out the dirt with your trusty shovel, one you had to buy brand new from the corner store.

You could stop there and let this time be like all the others, but you don’t. You’re aching, bloody, and bruised, maybe you’re broken, and maybe you’re fed up too. This time, like no other time, you shove the crowbar’s split foot into the barest crack in a metal you don’t know and heave. Expecting a fight, knowing there must be one.

But no. For this one thing, for what’s owed to your blood, there’s no fight. There’s no burst of exertion or spill of light, no roar as a dead thing comes to life. Instead, there is them.

Instead the cell cracks open and the top slides off smoother than silk. Instead you step back and in the dark that you can’t see through, something steps out of its jail.

“Master,” a voice in the dark drawls. Not a question, no doubt, because you’re bleeding and the scent of your blood is in the air.

“Yes,” you whisper, dropping the crowbar and wincing when it hits the shovel. Metal on metal is the only sound, besides your breathing, besides your pounding pulse.

Something is standing in front of you…someone? What do they look like? What _are_ they?

Would you be scared if you knew? You’re not sure, but when they take another step, one that rustles like feathers-on-feathers-on-feathers, you stand still. You let them take another step, one more, come closer to you, and you don’t run.

You stand there and let them touch your cheek, with a hand that’s bitterly cold and has two fingers at least. And claws. Claws that slice into your cheek, deep-deep, through the meat until those claws scrape your teeth. And does it hurt? Of course it hurts, but why can’t you care?

…why should you? When your blood matters, here and now. Warm down your cheek, splattering your shoulder, chest, arm. The pain is warm, burning hot, and alive, like you are. Alive like your mother isn’t. Alive like your brother didn’t care to stay. Alive like your father won’t be.

“Master,” the dark voice hums.

“Yes,” you say, louder, deader.

You don’t flinch when a cold tongue licks from chin to temple, or when it slides into the wound they made. It hurts, because you’re alive, and you stay still because you understand. Not like your mother who was too scared to ever come down here, and not like your brother who felt this but was too cowardly to take it.

Your creature laps up your blood and renews the contract they made with your family. Now to you. And, when they’re satisfied, cool lips kiss you and a lukewarm tongue smears your own blood in your mouth.

There’s a passion to it, a fire that licks through your veins, but it’s far from love and further from healthy, but you don’t care. Should you?

The kiss ends when your creature decides, when they pull away and leave blood stringed between you. When they cup your chin and tip your face up-up into the darkness where there’s two spots darker, watching you, getting a good look. Then, when they’re satisfied, your creature takes you by the hand, like you’re a child, and leads you to their cell.

Helps you up over the side, holding you steady as you climb, and patting your head when you’re in.

There are no words as they shake out their skin, feathers rustling and bones crackling. Out after so long inside, they need a second to adjust, and you let them have it. Then, second’s over and they’re gone, leaving you alone in the basement as it breaks open the basement door.

Snapping black hair and scattering black feathers are all your eyes adjust enough to see before they’re gone. Out into the house, off after your father with all your subtle rage burning them warm. And now you’re the cold one, sitting in a cage that’s not locked, waiting for your rage to come back.


	11. Roll in the Pumpkin Patch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every Halloween the witch comes into the village with his cart full of pumpkins, this time you go to meet him before he even thinks about setting foot outside of his garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis masc witch / gender neutral human
> 
> petnames: Darling, Love
> 
> cw: oral, frottage, outdoors but private, mild blood mention.

The cottage is empty when you stop by. There’s a pie cooling on the windowsill and a friendly familiar winding round your ankles, but no witch to be seen. Not in his kitchen cooking up something fantastic, though you do nip a piece of pie crust. And oh, he’s not in the study copying over musty old books, though the ink’s still wet on a page.

“Where oh where could he be?” you sing-song at his purring black cat, and laugh when she flops over for a pet. Which you give her, of course, stroking her ears and rubbing her tummy like she rarely lets you.

It’s when you’re crouched down in the doorway that it comes to you. On the breeze ripping through the open window, catching your attention over Shadow’s purring.

“He’s outside,” you laugh, and leave Shadow to her devices. Hurrying out the side door and following his lilting voice, out-out past the cottage and off-off into the woods.

Through the trees that he keeps pressed in close, to dissuade anybody else from picking through his property. You know your way though, know which elm to walk right through and which oak he’s hidden under a spell. And you know full well how to stop at the edge of his field and wait to be spotted.

Because he is a witch, magical and wicked, and that is his pumpkin patch, growing wild and free in preparation for that one magical day. There’s a layer of enchantment over the field, one that’s thick enough to fetch up against, break a nose against, but the spells aren’t the real danger.

Oh no, no, the real danger is of course the giant, sprawling tree in the middle of his field. The one that reaches up-up with leafless branches and beats away intruders with blood-filled roots. A tree that grows a single fruit once every hundred years and will gladly happily kill anything that might threaten it.

Hmm but there he is nevertheless, inspecting his crop with a careful eye, singing a spell over them to ensure a bountiful harvest.

“Saviour bloodstained, hells fire and shadow, heaven’s fallen pride,” wafts over on another breeze, and you don’t know what any of it means, but his blood tree sways with it. And the pumpkins rock with the rhythm, and all the trees of his forest creak in time.

And you wait patiently, while he saunters up and down the rows of pumpkins, singing his spell and swinging his cane. The soft thup-thup-thup of metal in dirt the only other sound, it’s a nice sound, familiar. One that reminds you of fall harvests and a mysterious man coming to the village with his cart full of pumpkins. All larger than any other pumpkin you’d ever seen.

The man in a broad brimmed hat with a strange bird perched on his shoulder offering to _give_ the village his entire cart for not a penny, not a single red cent. They could have all of his stock for nothing but a drop of blood from every single person in the village, that was all.

And sometimes people would whisper and hiss, demand to know what wretched things he would do with their blood. Sometimes they would threaten him, with sickles and blades, but he only smiled back and made his offer again. A cart of stock for a drop of blood.

They’d take it of course, every single time, and he would collect his blood in neat little vials.

How many years until you finally decided to ask him where he lived? Where he got such impressive pumpkins and why he never kept a single one for himself? How much longer until he invited you into his home? Then his bed? And finally the pumpkin patch?

More years than you can count right now, but it doesn’t matter right now, because he’s done his inspection and is beckoning you over with a grin. The same sharp smile he’d always flash down in the village, but you know now, that’s just how his face’s made. He’s all angles and edges, all dark looks and smouldering kisses.

“You’re early,” he says as you pick your way through the rows, careful not to damage the stems. It probably wouldn’t hurt the pumpkin any but you like to take care all the same, you knew what these vegetables meant to him.

“Murph gave me the evening off,” you shrug, and stop just out of reach with your smuggest grin, “Said I should enjoy myself tonight, but I dunno, is tonight special honey?”

You’re teasing and he knows you are, that you like the way his nose scrunches so cute and his eyes narrow so dangerous. Enough to warn off anybody, but not you. He’s never been enough to scare you off.

“If it’s not, then we’ll do our best to make it so,” he says, then hooks you with the crook of his cane and drags you laughing into his grasp.

Spindly arms and cool fingers, holding you as he dips you with practice-perfect ease into a heart-bursting kiss. One that’s warm in your chest and bubbling in your throat, one that’s laughing against your lips and smiling between you both.

He kisses you breathless, deep-deep and sweet. Tasting like sugar and spice to cover up the blood always in his mouth, and you can barely catch the ash tonight. Because tonight _is_ special. Tonight’s the one last dark moon before the harvest comes in ripe, and this is the last evening before he’s free to laze and lounge again. Free to you again.

And when he stands you up again, kiss drunk and giggling, the field’s dark and the sky’s burning crimson and there’s not even a sliver of moon to look forward too.

* * *

The Qliphoth is smooth against his back, gnarled in places but never rough. Never his first choice of thing to get pushed up against and kissed stupid, but it’s not a _bad_ choice at all. It isn’t a rough brick wall, nor is it an unfinished concrete floor, and that’s already two points in the tree’s favour.

The real advantage though, of getting his cock sucked in his field, is how helpful his Qliphoth can be. Branches wind under his arms, to hold him up, and roots sift soft dirt for his wicked love to kneel in. Though they’d not mind a rough patch of rock, or the dig of brick. They like the…inherent debauchery of the discomfort.

“My darling, sweet darling,” he moans, low in his throat and deep in his chest, as his love goes to town on him. Working over the head with expert technique, warm and wet and _tight_!

They suck and he rocks, hips snapping along to a rhythm he didn’t set, and only getting as far as they let him. A firm hand on his waist keeping him where they want, a twinkle in their eyes pinning him down. Their lips are stretched around him, kiss red and slick as they bob on his cock, down-down and back up-up.

Never as far as he’s so close to begging for but never far enough to make him break. His darling, sweet darling, knows him so well, plucks on him and plays him pitch perfect. With a soft touch on his trembling thigh and a soft moan th ** _at_** —

“Please!” he gasps, breathing hard, heart beating harder. Under his clenched fists, against the turn of his pulse, his Qliphoth is thrumming in tune with him. Shifting and swaying, rocking in time with his pitiful thrusts.

They look up at him, dark eyes shining, and the Qliphoth’s beat skips with his. And he knows, oh he knows, they’ve won this game. Though, isn’t he the real winner?

To have a lover so lovely? Who knows him so well, knows him beautiful and ugly and loves him either way. Who’d come into this field and pin him against this tree, and not once worry because they _trust_ him. So much trust in him, maybe too much, but he’s a selfish thing. A wicked witch who’ll keep what he’s been given.

“Please my darling,” he coos, sliding his fingers along their jaw, shuddering when they swallow-swallow slow and thick. He can feel the giggle he doesn’t hear, taste the amusement they try to hide. Pleased that they’ve broken him down so easily, warm with pride at how well they know their witch.

…their witch, that is what he is, isn’t it?

“Don’t be gentle my love, show me the depths of your desire,” he murmurs, stroking their cheek, and choking on a gasp when he feels that little brush against his cock. _Lord_.

And they do move, do pull off and off all the way, leaving him mewling-whining-grabbing at air. As they stand, as they stamp out their legs and lick their spit-slick lips, and never look away. Keeping him pinned with their eyes, letting them crowd him against the tree until he’s properly pressed into it.

A hand on his hip and one on his nape, coaxing him down to meet them in a kiss that is utterly filthy and utterly fantastic. Tasting himself in their mouth, his desperation and pleasure and musk. Tasting their groan when they grind against him, shifting under legs are spread and they can grind against one of his.

Or so they can give his aching cock some relief. A solid something to rut against, make a mess on, but they don’t mind. Oh no, dirty clothes only give an excuse to change into something else, or nothing at all. Dirty clothes are just a lewd reminder of lewder desires and designs.

And, if they k ** _eep_** , rocking against him just so. Keep fucking his mouth with their tongue, keep their fingers tight on his nape th ** _en_**.

Then he’s cumming in a mess of spend and whining moans. Then he’s shivering against the tree and rutting his cock harder, chasing every last dreg of pleasure. Then he's clinging to you and panting against your lips, eyes squeezed tight as you hold him and have him and undoubtedly keep him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ Capcom: suck me, the boy's too good to be wasted on Virginia's whiny lil ass.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secundus Circulus Praemia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: intersex demon / afab human (referred to as It)
> 
> petnames: Sovereign, Dove, Slut
> 
> cw: sadomasochism, pain play, breath play, knife play, blood play, edging, multiple orgasms, mentions of serial killing, mentions of demon contracts

In the flicker-flutter lights of a club that wasn’t mine, this pretty pet had been dazzling, hadn’t it? Swaying to the music, killing to the beat, oh yes-yes what a treat. And it turned, and it whirled and it stared with such wide eyes and wonder. At the creature applauding, the archdevil (me) approaching, full glammed and stalking closer. 

The little killer had said, “Here to take my soul?” and oh-oh what an idea that had been. To take it when it was a  _ her  _ and wine-dine-delight on the delicious piece of spite I’d found. Quick before anything else could take it, fast before it could regret this. 

“No, not yet, how about some help?” I offered instead. Extending a hand, dipping low in a bow, and letting it-her see just what it-she’d gotten into now.

Not often something so wicked this way came, to a club that wasn’t mine in a part of the city I hated. But she-it was special, wasn’t it? A little killer dancing through the territory, causing such a scandal-stir-spectacle, why how could I  stay away? 

Not then and not today. But today, it’s so much better, and now it’s so much sweeter. 

Pretty pet kneeling at your **_my_** feet, sweet dove cooing on its knees. 

Outside, past these walls, there’s a club in full swing. Coke in the stalls, meth on the floor, sex in every crevice, corner, and stuffed full hall. Outside are my sweet dancers, mes danseurs, wrapped around their poles and crawling into laps, kicking up a lust so thick can’t help the throb in my--

“Master,” it coos, big eyes batting, kiss bruised lips pouting. 

It wriggles and writhes, poor little worm on the hook, but ohh seems like this worm is enjoying itself. Wet between the legs, wet around the eyes, and drooling so desperate from the mouth. A delicate sniff, a connoisseur’s breath, and oh oh  _ yes _ . 

Lust thicker than what’s outside, desire slick on it’s slide, down my throat into my belly to warm my bones. This little dove tastes so wicked-sweet, like the blood on its blade and its trembling meat. Shuddering, aching, oh it’d do anything for Master to touch-bruise-fuck it, but it’s already gotten things wrong, the stupid slut. 

“Master?” I ask, cocking my head and flicking my tail, letting it see how close it is to failure. 

And mmm  _ there _ it is, in those flared nostrils and swallowing throat, in that perk of fear and gush of  _ want _ . Can smell it, can taste it, on my tongue and in my nose. Oh yes, yes, such a tasty treat, something to savour but never eat. Not completely. No matter how delicious it would be.

I couldn’t that very first night, when she-it looked up with desire in these self-same eyes, and I can’t do it now when it mewls and drops those fierce eyes. Always so fierce, except with me, because with me, it knows its place. Because here, it loves its place. 

“ _ Sovereign _ , my Sovereign,” it croaks, face tipped down to its chest, but it never stops lusting. Never stops dripping onto the floor or longing to get up-up into my lap and grind down-down onto my cock, or my thigh, or my fingers if I’ll give them to it. Anything, anything at all from its Sovereign. 

If all I offer are my boots, it’ll gladly have them.  _ Has  _ gladly had them. And, when I draw that lovely face up, twitch a finger and jerk on its collar, it’s only too happy to look up again. 

Pretty thing, sweet thing, promised its soul to a devil just to be a little better at killing and running. What was the bodycount when it finally got put down, snarling and howling like a pretend rabid dog? Hmm, hmm, can’t quite remember, but it’d been high right?

Had it been worth it? To make a name for itself in the most famous city in the world (what a terrible name) in such an unforgettable way (what a wicked way)? Maybe maybe, it would be simple to ask it and have the answer that way, but that was no fun. That was never any fun, and we’re here to have fun tonight, aren’t we?

“Heel.”

And it does, scrambling up onto its knees and lifting chained hands in a perfect limp-wristed puppy dog pose. A cocked brow is all it needs to drop its mouth and loll its tongue like a good dog, already drooling and getting worse. Good pet, so obedient and eager to please.

“We’re going to play a game.”

A snap and the cuffs fall free, rosemary-smoke-blood wafting up from the metal and it doesn’t look down. Oh it doesn’t even care about this one little taste of freedom. Sweet dove.

“You already know the rules.”

Another snap and here’s its knife, falling in a puff of black and caught in a simple catch. The still sharp blade gleams under the delirious lights and blood drip-drops off the edge, still hot and fresh and waiting for what’s next. 

Ah next, ohh next, well that’s where the fun is, isn’t it? Caught on the edge of a demon blessed blade, hanging on the tip of a damned dove’s tongue?

The game’s ready and its cunt is  _ aching  _ wet, but there are rules. And what are we without our rules? 

“Please,” it gurgles, fierce eyes cowed, and wet, and ready to spill, “Hurt me, Sovereign, please make it hurt.”

Mmmm, lovely, and the slutty little thing means it too. It wants whatever I’ll give it, oh that’s well understood, but it does have  _ preferences _ . A blade to a boot, a slap to a kiss, something sharp and  _ rough  _ to remind it just  _ who  _ it had sold its soul too.

Me, me, me, devilish me of course.

“Make me beg,” it whines, leaning as far back as I’ll let it, showing off exactly where it wants it. The burn of my touch, of course, and the kiss of my blade. Where it wants me to sink into its meat and smear its blood on my teeth. 

Hmm, pretty thing, sweet thing, well it did so politely ask and I am nothing if not obliging. A tug on a thread has it jerking to its feet, a roll of a wrist, and its crawling into my lap, all inhuman grace and glide. Oh but still so mortal, mortal souls are the best after all, and  _ I  _ deserve nothing less. 

It postures there, precariously balanced on spread thighs but not touching, it doesn’t have permission to touch yet. Good pet. It flinches away from a caressing hand, eyes closed on the wicked kindness of a cupped cheek, and ohh lovely-lovely. Which of us moans louder when I slap it? Which one drips wetter when its head cracks to the side and dark hair flies? 

Does it matter? 

When my cock is twitching and my cunt is clenching, savouring the heroin sweet sound of its pleasure-pain. Such a rare mortal, so despicable, really I was quite lucky to pick it up. Oh but now it’s mine, here on my thighs and waiting for my clawed touch. 

Or a fanged kiss, whichever comes first and makes it bleed best. 

“Thank you, Sovereign,” it croaks, eyes half-dazed as it licks up dribbled-down blood. Aw, it cut its poor cheek on its teeth, that’s too bad. We can do  _ better _ . 

A light wiggle of fingers and my pet’s held down, by its contract and my threads. Caught in its leaned back posture that can’t be broken at all now. Not for a wince, or a flinch, or even an orgasmic spasm.

Bent too far back to see, but that’s how it likes this. When it has to feel the tip of my blade tracing its stuck out bones and guess what I’ll do next, it never gets it right. Because what fun is there in expectation? None.

So, instead of giving it the ripping-tearing-breaking satisfaction it’s craving, I’m gentle. I don’t stab the knife down and deep, don’t cut through tendon-bone-muscle into convulsing organs, don’t hack out a lung and bite into a spleen. No, no, instead I’m nice, and isn’t that mean?

I slide the knife in, just the slightest bit in, cutting just enough to bleed and slick my blade. Along a collarbone, sliding in from its shoulder to its jackrabbiting throat, not stopping there of course, it would expect that. Instead down, down between heaving breasts beaded with sweat and goosebumps, and stop  _ there _ .

Just above that sweetest spot, watching the poor dove’s lips tremble but not missing its depraved little smile. Oh it wants  _ this _ most of all, the sick slide of metal into its heart, to feel what every single victim felt in their last wretched moments. It wants the agonizing ecstasy of a death being stretched into forever, because that  _ is  _ what I was promised. 

Forever with it at my feet, a prized pet to show off and torture and  _ fuck  _ at my leisure. That’s what she- _ it _ traded for a rampage, a kill count high enough to land its name in the record books and never be forgotten. An eternity in Hell? Yes it would pay that price, gladly. 

The broken-hurting whine that rips out of its throat is barely a fraction of its payment, but it  _ is  _ delightful all the same. Disappointment is always so sour-sweet and this little dove’s is particularly pungent as I draw the knife away from those jutting ribs, down-down to the trail of their hips. Two cuts that come with barely a sigh a piece, because it’s trying to be gracious, fighting to remember how to be, and isn’t that precious?

Sweet little slut, sad that I didn’t cut out its heart and gorge myself on it. Hmm, but a single missed opportunity isn’t enough to keep it morose forever, oh no, no, not when the blade’s playing across it’s thighs now. When the knife is leaving behind the shallowest slices, the ones that bleed the nicest, and washing its skin in red-red-red. 

The poor dove can’t shake, but it does sigh strangled little sounds, and does breathe ragged-jagged-desperate. And ohh if that doesn’t warm my cunt, mmm, utterly lovely.

The knife gets flung away, back to its special shelf in the office, and I turn my attention to its thighs. Gathering up the sleeking blood on my claws and rubbing it onto its stomach, its breasts, dribbling it along its trembling throat. Lovely, so lovely, the prettiest renaissance Hell.

Hmm, there’s no helping leaning in to lap it all off again. Lazy but still precise, I make sure to catch my devilishly rough tongue on my sweet dove’s soft skin. Rasping the blood off, drinking it down, headier than any wine because what wine could give me notes of pure desperation and need like this? 

Which wine would simmer in my gut like a bonfire waiting to catch, or beg under my tongue for more-more-please  _ more _ Sovereign. It doesn’t forget, good little dove.

Around us the music never stops and the club doesn’t pause, but inside it’s so easy to get lost in this little world. Where I can rake my claws down my dove’s back and get the loveliest moan in reply. Where I can bite deep and deeper into its neck and taste its gurgling pleasure. 

Where I can make it sit up again and hold its face in my hands and lick salty-sweet tears off its flush hot cheeks. Tears from disappointment and teasing, from pleasure and pain, from being given every terrible thing I’d ever promised, and loving every second of it. 

Of all the souls I’ve bound, gagged, and devoured, this one is oddly unique. This one is copper and desire, it’s manic glee and a bubbling screech of triumph, and that’s so very rare to see. Or find, lucky me. 

A hand around its neck and I can feel its electric pulse under my fingertips, a flex of my fingers and it can feel claws digging into that vulnerable vein. I could tear out its throat, lap up, drink down its blood like some copper-crazy thing. Or I could close my hand and snap its neck, poor little dove, and it would die in my hands, again. 

It was so lovely when it died, the faded light of its eyes and the lax fall of its body. A broken dove in my arms, or at my feet, sprawled where it fell until I  _ tugged  _ and forced my hard won soul back into its easily made body. 

“Lovely slut,” I hum and I squeeze. Tight but not tight enough to break, and too tight  _ to  _ break. Hmm, not that my dove would.

Its eyes are already rolling back and it can’t sip a single breath, already cut off from that piece of humanity. Left to wriggle and writhe in my lap like bait on the hook, and ohh,  _ there’s  _ something for later. Yes later, after we’ve finished our current game.

Because poor dove’s yet to win, and it is so very close. Mouth dropped open and silent but still drooling, eyes rolled back and white but still leaking tears. And, well, its pussy never stopped dripping, never stopped clenching around nothing no doubt. Poor thing. 

It’s so lucky to have as dutiful an owner as me, one who’ll lift it by the throat and settle it down on their cock.  _ Quite  _ generous of me, and it wheezes out that last held breath in thanks. Good pet,  _ very  _ good.

One thrust is all it will take, but no, my dove’s been good, hasn’t it? So of course I fuck up into it, and drag it back down on my cock by the throat, I even let it cum. Messy and breathless all over my cock, all over our thighs now all smeared with its blood, still a pretty picture. 

Sweet dove’s silent as I fuck it, no breath left to wheeze, whine, or even whisper. Eyes rolled back and body held perfectly postured by the bonds of our contract. Cunt messy wet and deliciously warm, feeling so-so  _ fucking  _ good. 

It’s half-conscious when it cums again, and mostly delirious for a third. The fourth is death, for a real human, but not my dove. The fourth orgasm jackknifes through, as far as it can move at all. Fingers curl and thighs tremble on top of  ours mine, and tears trail so-so pretty. 

The fifth comes with a ground-glass gasp and a guttural groan ripped right out of its throat, musical. After that, oh after that it’s so hard to keep count-track-care. When every ragged breath is orgasmic and every spasm of its oversensitive pussy sends it right back over the edge again. 

Again. Again. Again. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you Sovereign,” are the only words it knows as it writhes. As I choke it and it cums, as I bleed it and it begs, as it cries so nice and tastes so much nicer. 


	13. Carnality by Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's the slight fae thing standing against the dragon. He's the burning drake staring down a Wilde Rider. They are the lovers so very different but too much alike to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis fem half-fae / cis masc half-dragon 
> 
> petnames: Darling. 
> 
> cw: Femdom, Riding, Bondage, mild pain play, fire, devotion.

There’s a wildness in her that only comes out by their lake, in his firelight. A vicious wickedness that he never sees until flames are snapping-slapping-snarling at the sky and he’s howling right along with them. There’s a part of her that only exists when the world burns, and he thinks he might love that the most.

The gleam in her eyes and the bite in her kiss. The way she takes his hands and dances like a mad thing. Kicking sand and splashing water, not caring when the flames hiss or they brush too close to the fire. Doesn’t care when her hair blows into it and the ends burn, doesn’t care when they splash too far into the water and almost sink into it. Almost fall.

They never do, but the chance’s always there, just like the eyes watching them from the reeds. Staring-leering, waiting for them to make one wrong step and fall down into the wet that’ll never let them go.

Tonight, oh tonight is special, even more special than usual. Because tonight the moon’s shining full before the fire even starts. Tonight she’s dancing before the embers catch, and by the time they do, she’s already breathing hard and laughing harder. Wild and wicked, shrieking like a _Wilde_ thing when she catches his hands and drags him into a dance along the lake shore.

Up and down under the moonlight, down and up by the firelight. She screams words he doesn’t understand and he roars with laughter she doesn’t need to join, but she does anyway. Laughing at the moon, the fire, the eyes watching them from the water. And she’s still laughing when they go down in the sand, a graceful tangle of limbs and mania.

She’s golden in the firelight; eyes, skin, lips, and he knows he’s red. A scatter of scales across his cheeks, a pinprick of blood in his eyes. They’re so much the same and nothing alike, and when she kisses him, he tastes apples. Achingly sweet apples on his tongue, apple blossoms in his nose, and the fire around them.

She kisses him like she dances, with hands shoving his shoulders into the ground so precise, with nips that bleed him never the same place twice. And he lets her lead him wherever she wants, because he’ll go wherever she asks, do _anything_ she asks. And if she wants to fuck him out by the lake, under the moon and too close to his fire, then of course.

He snatches at her skirt while she rips his shirt, buttons go flying and the slit splits to her hip, then the waistband goes too, but he’ll buy more. Whatever she wants, anything she wants, later. After.

Right now, right now he’s too busy lifting up his hips to get his pants off, has to grab her top and pull until it’s rags in his hands. Until they’re kissing again and her too cool skin’s pressed up against the length of him that’s burning hot. Searing hot, enough to brand and char, but not her. Never her.

She’s safe from him, safer than anybody else has ever been, and he shudders into the relief of that. Knowing he could never hurt her, not even by mistake. Then he shudders at her too cool touch, her palm on his cheek, fingers along his cock. She’s a tease, always such a fucking tease, and he shouldn’t let her get away with it every single time, except that he always fucking does.

That he throws his head back into the sand and lets every rip-tearing growl crawl out of his throat and echo in the night around them, across the water too. Where the eyes are still hiding, and watching.

Then her palm slips over the tip of his dick and time skitters away. Minutes and hours, maybe even days, who fucking cares. There’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, with her, bucking into her touch and basking in her laugh. He tries, sometimes, to give as much as he gets, but she lets vines grow around his wrists and pin him down. Keep him right where she wants him, exactly how she likes.

He tries, he always tries, fingers twitching up to her hips while she drags him to that bittersweet trip, and he gets thorns hooked into his wrists for his trying. Tips at his pulse, digging in barely-barely, not sharp enough to do much damage but that’s not what they’re for. Oh no, they’re to remind him who’s in control, who’s _always_ in control.

The thorns are to give him something to focus on while she has her drawn out fun. A literal prick of pain every time she fucks his cock with her hand and he arches up into her, or makes the mistake of reaching up for her. The broken glass edges pull, and sting, and keep his hands above his head, dug into the dirt while she works.

At getting him hard, getting him desperate and loose. Less willing to tell her no when he knows she’ll always wring a yes out of him. Yes to dancing by the fire with her, even though she knows what the fire is. Yes to swimming out into the lake, although she can see the eyes in the reeds so much better than him. Yes to sex by the lakeside, under the moon, under a fire; the only two people for miles around and still not alone.

Then he can’t think about where they are or who’s there with them, because she’s sliding down on his cock, slow and steady. Hands on his chest, holding him down, keeping him right where she fucking wants him.

She sighs when she’s down, a content little thing all satisfied and shapeless that catches in his chest and drags a moan right out of his gut. He can feel her thorns in his lungs, the shift and bloom of her flowers, and he knows he shouldn’t love it the way he does. She could kill him so-so easy, one wrong move from him and he’s dead in her hands, but…but fuck is it **_good_**.

“Move,” she hums, lips parted in the sweetest smile. One he can’t help sitting up to kiss right off her. And moves, because she asked of course, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

Fucking up into her is harder like this, he doesn’t have the leverage to pound up into her the way he likes, but she keeps sighing into his mouth, purring while she scratches along his spine, and what he’d like isn’t important. It’s her, always her. The jagged thrust of his hips and brutal grind down, the teasing lift and heart stopping drop as she rides him.

Knees in the sand, cunt so wet, and the firelight behind them. She’s everything he couldn’t have from anybody else, almost more than he can believe. And it’s not the steady way she fucks him, or the slice of thorns between his shoulder blades that keeps him lust drunk and fucked out.

It’s her voice, fuck her _voice_. Crooning his name like a dirty little secret, saying it like nobody else could. Moaning it in his ear and making his cock twitch every time.

“Darling, my darling,” she whispers, and scratches him bloody, makes his heart trip.

“Just mine,” buzzes in his blood, his cock.

“Come for me,” makes his head fuzz out. As he comes for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are original characters actually, and so's the person in the water. My first set of real ocs, ah, feels good to have them here.


	14. Backstage at the Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come one, Come all to the Greatest Show Unearthed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis masc human / cis fem human
> 
> petnames: Mommy, Boy
> 
> cw: mommy kink, pegging, multiple orgasms, sadomasochism, mention of organized crime, mention of death, mention of drugs & alcohol.

The Circus isn’t a place to go visiting if you’re a good girl, not somewhere to wander off to without mommy and daddy, but you gotta be a little naughty to even hear about it. To know which street to slip down and which door to knock on. To wanna give a name that’s not yours, _or_ your contact’s, and dance past the hopped up security into a crowd that’s fucking crazy.

Naughty-naughty girl, what are you doing here? Who’d you come to track down, or what? Need a hit? Need something quick? How about a piece you could hide under your prim-proper skirt? Or maybe a little need’s more your speed, don’t chu worry sweetie, we’ve got plenty of that too.

Take a look, have a gander, it’s not safe in the slightest but don’t worry sweetie, the Ring Master’s on her way and everybody’s on their worst behaviour. From the pretty boys shaking their pretty asses up on the stage to the filthy girls shooting it up in the back, and we do meaning shooting it baby doll. Look quick or you’ll miss that super slick flash-bang-click, but there’s always time to watch the bodies fall.

Ha! Stupid fuckers, those ones thought they could steal from Mommy and get away with—hmm? What’s that?

Who’s…oh pretty doll, you’re in for a treat. No no, don’t go away, sit right here with me, there right there in that seat.

Now, what was that funny thing you said? Who’s Mommy? Oh baby, she’s the best, she’s the worst, she’s gorgeous, stunning, ruthless and always puts business first. She’ll kiss you stupid and break your neck, and you’ll thank her with those dying breaths. Mmm, if you’re luckier than lucky, she’ll say those two most special words “ _Fuck Me_ ”.

Of course, _you_ need to be worth something. She likes her expensive pretties. Her gems and jewels and guns put together better than this whole damn block. Twice as hard and double clocked, only way to be baby.

And what else? What else does Mommy love? Why her boy of course. Ohh what a boy she’s got. A cocky crazy wrapped in a sleazy boa with red-stick smeared all over his shit-grinning face. Mmm but c’mere doll, lean in close and lemme tell you a secret.

None of this red on my face is lipstick.

* * *

He comes bounding over the second she’s in. Slipping under her security and shoving in close til all she can focus on is him. Him and his manic red eyes, him and his blood splettered face. Grinning at her, blinking, batting and puppy-dog begging her.

He’s been a good boy, a real low-down no-good boy. He’s done everything she asked and worse, so he deserves a lil appreciation. Ain’t that right Mommy?

“Fuck off,” she sneers right in his face and catches him right by the hair.

Jerked back the way he likes, hard and sharp to show off that nice sharp jawline, and even better, a flawless throat. He’s been gone long enough for everything to fade, bruises and blood-kissed blotches. There’s nothing but fresh, smooth skin left, creamy white like she always forgets he is under all his paint.

“Look at’cha, got smack all over your face and speed all in your veins,” she growls, dragging him in by the hair, making sure to hold painful tight.

She loves the pin-prick dilate of those snake-slit eyes, the blow out of black when his dirty little cock’s wet. Looking at her like she’s the world, like she’s some kinda Goddess for him to worship. It’d be pathetic if she didn’t know _just_ how her clown preferred to sacrifice.

“Sorry, my Mommy wasn’t there to clean it off,” he purrs, reaching up to smear some of that too hot blood worse on his cheek. Still viscous and wet, even hours after. Fucking Dusties and their fucking broke blood.

Her boy’s just smiling though, always smiling like the fucking jester he is. Getting more of that toxic shit on his bare hands and not caring about the burn. And she can’t help a smirk, yeah, she knew there was a reason she kept the brat around. Other than his fantastic ass and hunger for pussy.

“You’re more trouble’n your worth, sweet boy,” she says, not soft, never soft.

They both like making a scene, always being the centre of attention in their Circus. He’s the clown, all made up and dressed down, covered in red hot smack and packing blue hot tac. And she’s the Ring Master, prim and the furthest thing from proper. She’s the oldest name in the game, toughest bitch in the ditch, and there’s not a man dare go against her.

She’s the Boss and this is her show, anybody who’s got a problem can fuck right off into the next body bag.

Every eye’s on them as she holds her boy by the hair, doesn’t matter who’s drunk or who’s bleeding out, every eye is on them. Waiting to see-to see what she does to this second in command who’s so damn brazen. Regulars think they know, they’ve seen the start of the Act enough times, but do they really? And Newbies? Ah fuck Newbies.

“Alli,” she calls, over her shoulder and waits for him to race up behind her, close enough to smell his rosy-cig, “I want the whole block bumping, gimme a classic shack-up.”

And a second of bated breath, as brains try to catch up on what ears just heard. How long’s it been since the Circus started a Carnival? Couple years right? Good few at least, not since they needed the cover for the Dorcan fly-over, and that was too fucking long.

She wants a three whole days of amusement park anarchy, the old school shit. She wants the Circus screaming and every cat house reeling and the flat foots run into the grave with the pick-up. Collateral doesn’t matter, now with what’s buzzing, and even if it did, she’s the fucking Boss, she can fling a party if she wants one.

“Got it Boss,” Alli mutters, and kisses her cheek before he’s hustling out the door.

Circus’ quiet as he leaves, every step pitch-clear perfect as her order arcs through the air above every head.

“A party just for me?” her clown coos, making his mad-hatter, mad-dash scramble for the catch, “I’ve got the best Mommy in town”.

And letting it smash anyway.

* * *

Downstairs and outside, the world’s on fire and the world’s breaking to bits and pieces. There’s a Circus come to town and a Carnival spilling through the streets and more chaos than the poor old security minister can shake her ass at. And usually, _normally_ , he’d be down in the thick of it.

With smack splashed all over his everything and a burn in his brain that was pounded like a heart attack. Normally, _usually_ , he’d be blowing something to shit and blowing somebody else to pieces, more’n Levy could put back together again. He’d be down in the shit of it making the most trouble of the lot and getting his name up in those red-blue flashing lights.

Mmm but he prefers here. Prefers Mommy’s triple locked bedroom where they can’t hear a single bit of the world, where the whole thing could blow and they’d never know.

He prefers tied down and ass up while Mommy pounds his ass harder than he’s had in too long. Through one orgasm, two, three, gunning for four and she’s fucking sure to score. Because she knows her boy.

She knows just how to cant her hips and press his dick into the deviously plush sheets. The ones made from real fur that always feel real good under his tear-wet cheeks. That’s all he gets, all he needs, Mommy’s cock and Mommy’s attention, all on him, all for him.

“Cumming again, sweet boy?” she hums, in his ear, kissing his cheek. Then his jaw, and down to his throat, where he’s already arched just perfect for her to leave her mark. Another one, another one, and a dozen more to make up for all the ones that faded while he was away.

On her orders of course, because he doesn’t fucking work for anybody but her, but still. He had to be away for too long, and sometimes the brand ain’t enough. Her letters burned into him, oh those are good, those are so fucking delicious, but sometimes he needs more. Sometimes he needs his Mommy’s voice in his ear and her hands on his hips and her cock in his ass fucking him over the edge one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are part of a much larger original work I'm still plotting and world building up. This might not even be a thing that happens in the actual story, but these two are in the same world as Mission Priority Alpha.


	15. Save a Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long, hard day's ride from Jamestown back to their own town. A long ride of up-down jangling on a horse that's only trying to make the best time it can. Can't help it, nothing for it, but that doesn't take the edge off, now does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis masc half-demon / non-binary masc werewolf
> 
> petnames: Sweetheart, My Boy
> 
> cw: buttplug, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, begging, bratting, over-stimulation, vague mentions of gore, Western setting.

The whole sky’s running red when they finally fetch up on the town. Sundown after a day of riding through empty sand and haunted dust. Riding and not talking because it wasn’t worth the effort, not stopping neither because they had to keep on before dark. 

Vel’s...they’re tired, saddle sore and ready for a rest. Cam’s a good horse, best horse they’ve ever had, but she’s still only a horse and she can’t help her rollicking-rolling gait. She’s already putting out forty miles a day, that’s enough.

When she crests the hill and stops, they do take a second to appreciate the stillness though. Not quite comfort yet but a damn sight better than the constant up-down, back-forth sway of her steady canter. And when Rosie trots up beside them, they spare a glance for their riding partner.

Poor thing’s wrecked and crashing, sweating bullets under the fall of his hair and through his bandana. Blue eyes narrowed and pale face flushed red-red-sun burned red, he always burns no matter what, but this time it ain’t the sun staining his pretty face like that. Vel smiles, but keep it to theirself, no reason to antagonise the poor thing while they’re still a half mile out.

Except, there’s all the reason in the world.

“Alright there, sweetheart?” Vel drawls when Rosie trots up level with Cam and brings Rhys close enough to kiss. They can see the stretch of his lips against the bandana, the curl of his sneer as his eyes narrow and he snarls. Guttural in a way that ain’t human,  _ or _ mortal, and shit if that don’t seethe real good.

They wanna kiss that snarling mouth speechless, right here and now, forget heading into town and forget the bounty too. They want to touch and taste and have, but blue eyes flash, and Rosie’s plunging down the hill for the town. They watch the rider and horse go, off in a cloud of dust, and Cam nickers, pulls at her bit.

“Alright girl, almost there,” they murmur, and set her plunging down after her partner.

There’s something of a race to town between the two of them. Rosalie and Camellia taking one last chance to really stretch their legs before they have to amble in half-lame. And their riders’re the same. Rhys whoops, wild and wicked, but Vel feels the roar rumbling under it. A buzz that settles between the shoulder blades and pushes.

They want to slide off Cam and fall into a sprint of their own. Full out, flat out across the empty stretch. They could get there first, outstrip the horses in a short burst and win their little race, but they don’t. Rhys’ barely got any control, and if they let theirs slip, he’d take the excuse.

They like this town, it’s familiar, and nobody here ever looks out East when the sun’s already setting West. Not even a single pair of eyes cast about, not a lone watcher posted and alert. Rosie and Cam fall out of their gallops when they’re a stone’s throw away, Rhys quiets, and Vel straightens right up.

Rosie and Cam hit limits at the same split second, just another tie between them.

Rhys breaks away for the inn, off to get their usual room, and they head for Vitale’s to collect on the bounty. They have six pelts skinned and salted, ready for handing off to the only witchdoctor for weeks. Got no damn idea what Vitale does with the things, when the blood’s already acid and the skin’s barely better, but he pays a hefty sum on every head, so they don’t really care.

No words this time, or any other, Vitale takes the pelts with careful wrapped hands and his assistant plucks the money out of her fancy leather purse. They make a show of counting it, like they always do, and she just smiles her catty lil sneer. Then they’re back out and shaking the static out their fur, the musk of something  _ else _ that always tries to cling.

Sun’s fully set by the time they stable Cam next to Rosie, watered and brushed and nothing but a horse. They give her one last gentle, “ _ Be good _ ” and a goodnight, then into the inn for a quick dinner. In the corner of course, next to Rhys who’s twitchy and growly, glaring at anybody who looks a lil too long or talks a whisper too loud.

He doesn’t settle when they scooch in next to him, but he does quit bristling and press full flush, close as he can get. Nearly in their lap with his bowl of meat and nothing else, enough to raise some brows but nothing to cause a stink about. This town knows them, enough to not bat a eye when they chew their bones and lick the bowl, nor when Rhys yawns and shows off too sharp teeth.

Nobody bothers them and they don’t bother nobody, but the place livens back up the second they’re up the steps. Not even in their room yet but out of sight, out of mind, and that’s fair, that’s understandable. They’re already pushing it, too much predator in their blood, but Rhys is really toeing the line, and there’s only so much understanding folks can have.

But folks stay downstairs and they go up, all the way to the third-floor top with their slant-roof attic and single-bed retreat. They get the door closed, get their chaps off, and get tackled to the floor by a whole half-devil.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” ‘S all Rhys can mutter against their throat, rutting against their thigh. He’s hard and hot and leaking already, has been all day, the poor thing, and they’ve been aching to see.

But, they like the tease a little more. The slow slide of rough palms down a firm chest, low-lower to those damn delicious hips. Rhys’ has hips finer than a showgirl, could probably take a stage and work a crowd better than any they’ve seen, but they’re a possessive sumbitch, and so’s he. Moaning when they yank his shirt free-free of his pants and get their hands on his burning hot skin.

“C’mon,” he whines, nipping the vein just too sharp of playful. So of course they gotta dig claws into those sweet hips, not enough to break that smooth skin, but just enough to feel.

And Rhys, lovely Rhys, moans against their throat, buzzing against their jugular. It’s a rich noise, a honey slow noise making its way through their veins and plumping up their cock. Filling up and filling out their scent profile too, mixing up a pheromone tonic that’d put any wolf on their ass. Either a “ _ come see the show _ ” or a “ _ stay the fuck away _ ” depending on the wolf in particular of course.

“Gonna show me then, sweetheart?” they growl, dropping a vicious kiss on that crown of white. Pure white, silver white, most damning thing about their poor sweetheart. Ain’t no way of hiding a head of hair like that, not with all the hats and pomades in the world. Devil’s white can’t never stain away, but Rhy’s wears it so good.

He goes without a hat, even in the burn of sun hot, and he shakes it out now, as he bobs his head yes, yes, yes. Then he’s scrambling back to his feet, to rip off his shirt (saving the buttons this time) and kick off his jeans. To fling off chaps and belts but carefully unhook his holster and lay it gentle on a peg.

They expect him to pounce again once that’s done, to fall on them and start humping their leg with a cock that’s flushed a sweet red. But no, no, instead their ornery devil drops on all fours and  _ presents _ .

Face down and neck bared, ass up and back arched.  **_Presenting_ ** with his cock hanging heavy and wet between sweet thighs, with his plugged up hole invitingly red.

“C’mon, fuck me already,” Rhys snaps, but they can hear the brittle brattiness in it. He’s already teased to the edge, ready to fall, but he can’t without permission, no sir. No matter how hard or rough he rode, no matter which way he tried to grind that sweet ass into his saddle, onto the plug. There was no relief, only the too full stretch and the desperation to make town before sundown.

And now, now finally here they are, and here he is…still plugged. Course the poor boy’s frustrated, course he won’t remember his airs and graces, it’s all part of the game, ain’t it? Rhys pushing-snarling-demanding what he wants because it’s how he was grown, asking never got no bastard half-devil nowhere before. 

Hmm, Vel’s working on it, they’ll get there. Oh but right now, they just cock back and take in the pretty little sight; perfect posture and an enticing wiggle when they don’t do anything. Rhys is nearly ready to beg, he’s right there and he’ll do it if it’ll mean he finally gets some damn relief. Though he hates begging even more than asking.

“Didn’t nobody teach you any manners?” they taunt, all suave confidence, but their hands are shaking as they work their pants off. Don’t even bother with the shirt, let it hang, a little more sweat ain’t gonna hurt it.

Rhys huffs, chest puffing up with all his pride while his poor cock twitches and drools without stop. He’s ready to burst, ready to cum, but he can’t yet. Not yet.

“Maybe if you’d hurry up!” is what he bites out instead of anything polite, and they chuckle, low and dark in the back of their throat. Reaching out to touch those taut-muscle thighs, trailing clawed fingers up-up to the dip and curve of their boy’s ass.

What a nice ass, such a sweet ass. Always better out of jeans than in, always nicer stuffed full of something than empty.

The plug’s a pretty pink, dawn before the day pink, fucked out and desperate pink. Vel still not sure they understand the little devil bauble, but Rhys had insisted, with cheeks the same blushing pink. Such a nice colour on him. 

Mmm, but red’s better, they think. Red of his gnawed lips, red of his leaking tip, red of the abused skin holding the plug so perfectly in. A devil toy for their devil boy, a plug to keep their sweetheart stretched and ready was nice enough, but this one was nicer still. It’d kept Rhys on the edge all day, hard in his shorts and barely steady on his horse. 

Vel hums appreciatively and circles the base with the barest brush of a finger. Admiring the warm brown of their skin shushing up against Rhys’, listening to the catch-twist-break of Rhys’ breath as they press on the plug. As he tries to keep himself together, hold it all together. But his hollow heart’s beating now, his cock’s aching now, and there’s not much left to hold together. 

“I just want one little please, sweetheart,” they murmur, and sidle up close-closer, until they’re barely braced over him. Ready and waiting to drop their weight and pin him down, hold him where he’s letting them and fuck into him like they both want. But they’ve always had better control than him, more patience, even here.

“ _ Fuck _ your please,” Rhys hisses, but he doesn’t make a move to break posture. Whines low in his throat when they get rake blunt claws up his stomach, when they fetch up against his aching cock.

So easy to take him in hand and stroke painfully slow. Barely any pressure, hardly any relief. Teasing him worse than the plug did in the saddle, worse than a day’s ride without stopping.

A kiss at the top of his spine, one between his empty shoulder blades, on each shoulder. Soft kisses, romantic kisses that Rhys would usually tease them about. If he had the breath, if he had the brain left. 

Oh but there’s no teasing this time, not when poor Rhys is otherwise preoccupied. Caught up what he wants and what he needs to do to get it, held still by the burn in his gut begging for more. Please some more.

“ _ Fuck _ .  **_You_ ** ,” Rhys snarls, all venom and vitriol, angry enough to do any wolf proud but Vel’s not  **_any_ ** wolf, and they don’t pour thier pride in wrath. 

They hold still, hold their breath and wait. Wait. Wait. 

Wait out the devil, wait out their sweet lil brat, wait out thier  _ own  _ patience at that. Vel waits and Rhys pants, ruined and ragged, and Rhy’s whines, soft and savage. 

Then he slumps, drops all the rest of his weight on his elbows and lets out one last rebellious breath. 

“ _ Please _ Vel,” Rhys says finally, “c’mon please fuck me.” 

Head dropping lower, back arching deeper, fingers digging into the wooden boards. Hmm, they’ll probably have to pay extra for that later, if the landlord ever comes up here when they’re not in.

“All day, wanted your cock all day,” Rhys whines, cheek grinding into the wood, trying to hide his face. Oh but Vel knows, they can smell their sweet boy, can’t they. 

Scent the musk on him, and desperation, and embarrassment. Strung out so far as to beg, where’s his pride now?

“Was all I could think about since we left Jamestown.” ‘S a half-muffled confession. 

“Could barely keep Rosie on track. Just wanted you to mount me and fuck me good and deep.” Rumbles under thier chest, where they’re pressed as close as they can get. Mouthing at the neck offered, drinking down that ever intoxicating devil liquor.

“C’mon Vel, fuck the cum right outta me,” Rhys begs, no second question, he  _ begs _ . Grinds the last bit of that pesky pride under his heel and laying it out bare. And Vel sighs, buries their nose in soft white, and grins into it as their boy shivers and shakes. 

As their boy goes prey-tense while they work the pretty little plug out of his pretty little ass. With clawed fingers that catch and drag utterly delicious sounds out of Rhys. With a steady twist-pull-roll that’s got his cock twitching-jumping- _ drooling _ .

Rhys puts a fist through the floor when the devil toy comes free, howling through his teeth, and Vel tries to remember about keeping a tally. How much they can spare on room repairs. 

“Vel, Vel pl- _ ngg.” _

Cut off, choked off, humming in their own throat as they slide home.

Rhys puts another hole in the floor but Vel’s past giving a shit, whatever they end up paying, they’ll make damn sure to get their money’s worth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made these two up just for this, and I actually really like them a lot now. So maybe I'll be using them for something in the future, who knows.


	16. Fairytale Frolics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: gender neutral human / genderfluid faerie 
> 
> petnames: N/A
> 
> cw: sensuality

Try not to get lost darling dear, because you’ll never know what’s near. Out in the woods and deep in the forests, alone in a city where you’re just a tourist. He’ll find you, you know, wherever you go, and wander, and wonder. He’ll come traipsing down the path you didn’t notice before, or run into you slipping out a door, and he’ll give his most charming smile and ask “can we walk together a while?”

The excuse is different every time, he’s lost, he’s new, he saw you and couldn’t resist. He had to know; where you came from, where you’re going, how old, and oh, of course, your name? Can he have it? May he know it? He’d love to hear, because such a pretty face must have a matching name, twice as lovely even?

 _Oh_ here, he’ll give you his to start: Robin Goodfellow. Yes, he knows, old fashion, kind of queer? Ah he’s heard it all before, it’s nothing special, but really dear, what’s _yours_?

Told you his so don’t be coy, whatever could it be pretty thing? Something wild and sweet that sticks in his teeth but slides down his throat like the slyest Bard quote? Hmm what about something with a sharper bite, a name that bares its razor sharp teeth and tears into him like the freshest raw meat.

 _Would_ you like that? To sink your teeth into him and leave your mark? He’ll always ask with bright eyes dark, and soft smile sharp, and shift of something you didn’t first notice. Though how could you not when it’s all of him splayed out for your notice? The limbs too long and the walk too clean, steps barely touching whatever’s beneath.

And how could you miss the way his joints twist, too far and too tight, wrong and different but…no, not wrong, not quite. Not…wrong, because how could something like him be wrong? With eyes that dance and lips that can’t frown. With a hand offered and a body bowed low and a husky voice whispering secrets he shouldn’t know.

About the filthy, dirty things you’ve always wanted; the desire, the domination, the lust never confronted. Oh, but, as he bows there; in the forest, in the wood, in an alleyway as deserted as a city alley ever could, you titter. On the edge of accepting, only holding back because you know you shouldn’t.

Everything says you shouldn’t, everything good and just and moral too. No, no, you can’t have that and shouldn’t want it, but here’s something—someone practically begging you to flaunt it. Offering himself and this one chance, and maybe this once is just what you need, to work it out of your system, let the bad blood bleed.

He asked your name but you give him something else instead, an ember that burns in his gut, that lurches in his chest and drops him to his knees. Mouth open and panting, eyes glazed and wanting. In the forest, in the alley, he’s there and waiting for you. Tongue hanging, fingers twitching, ready and waiting to be given permission.

To touch, firstly, and fuck secondly. You against the wall, if you’d like that, or maybe you want his mouth? Oh so many people do, he has such a pretty silver tongue, why not let him speak gold for you?

Or maybe, you’d rather be nasty-cruel- _wicked_? He can be that kind of submissive. Go on, grab a fistful of his curls and snap his head back, make him beg, make him squirm. Grind his face into the dirt, make his cheeks streak with tears, or bleed him red (though it isn’t his colour) and he’ll be a masochist proper.

But still, you could give him your leg if you’d be so kind and he’ll give you precious puppy whine. He can hump your thigh and be such a good boy, lock him in his cage and make poor puppy leak. Oh wouldn’t you love such a scrumptious treat?

Oh, oh! He’s got more tricks still. Stand there and he’ll flip the tables. Crowd you against a brick wall, pinned to a tree, and lean in close to whisper words so filthy. About how he’ll pin you down and make you scream, oh yes he can already smell how whorishly wet. And he can hear your heartbeat on your breath, and even taste that musk between your legs.

You’d like to be fucked by something not perfectly human, something that’s beyond mortal even? Hmm, aren’t you the type to go wandering the lost places, hoping and praying you find something waiting. On the path or just beside it, waiting for where you’d wander past it.

Something like him? A charming Goodfellow with a charming tongue, ready and willing to help whoever came along. Or maybe something like this? Something that tastes like smoke in a kiss, and iron on his teeth, and wild underneath. Something that devours your mouth like a starving fox, nipping and yipping, whining and whimpering.

Sounding half-pained and wholly pleased, finally getting something more than a tease. As he ruts against you, hooks his thorns into you. What’s your name he asked, and gave you his. What do you want me to be, he purred, and offered himself. Hmm but darling, oh but dear, you should know better than to take something from the fae.

Whether it’s food they offer quite sweetly, or drink they slosh so freely. Even when it’s a pretty thing, waiting for you-staying for you but the path you’re sure to take.

Go looking or stumbling across, it doesn’t matter once you’re offered. And even the offer isn’t important compared to your answer.

No, no, not no or yes. He’ll have you either way, but will you have him the same? Well darling dear, and dear darling, it quite depends on whether you tell him your _name_.


	17. Night of the Loving Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world's free falling straight into hell but it's not all bad, not all lonely either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: gender neutral human / cis masc zombie
> 
> petnames: N/A
> 
> cw: apocalypse setting, zombie fucking, vague gore, vague blood.

He’s necrotizing every second you’ve had him. Every second that stretches into a minute that spans into an hour. He’s dead, and still dying, and there’s no point in loving him, but it’s the end of the world and there’s no point in anything.

At first you try to justify it by saying he’s just an opportunity. He’s your chance at survival when you’ve got nothing left, because bullets run out and drugs can only carry you so far, and you travel alone anyway. If you were part of a gang, a group, maybe you wouldn’t need him, but you’re alone and you’re the only one at risk.

You try to explain it after by swearing he’s just convenient. You use him to go places you can’t, hang back while he runs into hordes and comes back in one piece. Sometimes he brings you junk but mostly he gets good stuff, so he’s worth the hassle of the muzzle and extra layers. Though he’s quick, and fast, and tenacious enough to gnaw through denim all the way to flesh if that’s what he wanted.

When you run into other survivors, as rare as it is, you tell them he was your brother, your cousin, your boyfriend. You couldn’t give him up after he turned, he was the only family you had left, you ran away from the group together when he found out. And you were there when he turned, all through the bone breaking, evolution fast-forward turning.

He knows you, is what you tell them, he’s imprinted and sees you as not food. Like a domesticated leopard, you raised him from young and you’re all he knows.

“What if he turns on you?” they always ask, eyes wary, hands on their guns.

“Then he turns on me,” you always say, with a shrug and a tug on the chain he only wears around company.

Sometimes you think about the first day you found him. Down in a basement and chained to a wall, alone and abandoned by whoever’d loved him. Enough to not kill him but not enough to save him from starving to death, dying a second time.

He’d been haggard then, skin sloughing off to show the meat underneath. Meat that was rotted and black, blood that was sluggish and thick. He’d been too weak to tear at the chain when you came close, too wear to swipe or bite as you inspected the collar around his neck.

You hadn’t known how to pick locks back then, or break metal links, or even shoot a gun. You could have left him the same way you’d found him, close the basement door and keep wandering on in search of…whatever came next. But you hadn’t, even though you should have.

Feeding him had been easy enough. The cities were still full of bodies then, the dying who’d stayed dead. Hadn’t been hard to hack off limbs and carry them down to the basement for him, was easy even when his scent started rubbing off on you. Distracted the shambling horde long enough to dart wherever you needed to and back out undetected.

You’d thought about naming him then, just to call him something, but you’d never got around to it. He wasn’t a pet, even though he’d butt up against your hand if you held it out, or whine when you left, and yip when you got back. He was yours, even then, but you hadn’t named him.

Not even after you got him free, picking the collar and dragging him out of his corner. He didn’t have a name, but neither did you anymore, so that was probably fair.

No name to hiss when he runs ahead of you and into a horde, no name to laugh when he knocks you over and licks your face, no name to sigh when he curls around you at night and ruts against your thigh. No name for something that should be a monster, with his split mouth full of too many teeth, with his milky-dead eyes. No name for this creature that you somehow love.

But he’s so easy to love. At the end of the world, so many impossible things are easy.

Like sleeping under a sprawl of stars in the middle of a empty town. Or laying a palm on a Hunter’s bone-jut throat and having him quiet down. Letting a dead thing drag you close, drag you half onto it, and grinding against it instead of screaming.

Sometimes there _is_ screaming. If you find a lonely enough place, if he’s territorial enough by the end of the day. A scream that you can’t help, a scream that makes him laugh. Almost human, but still not.

Tonight you’re sprawled under the stars and he’s propped above your hips. Tonight he’s scenting at your throat and fucking into your hole. Tonight he’s keeping you quite with teeth, all of those teeth, against your skin and the threat of a bite that will never come. Though you will.

Of course, you will. He likes when you do. Shivering and shaking, silent when you have to be and screaming when you can. He likes to settle between your thighs and the scent the mess he’s made. Loves to lap it all up and feel you tremble above him, for him.

Tonight he’s already cum once, and twice, but you haven’t. Not yet. But he’ll keep fucking you until you do, with a stamina that’s utterly inhuman and a cock to match. 


	18. House of Wax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we love never dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis fem non-human / gender neutral human
> 
> petnames: Love, Darling, Treasure, Mine
> 
> cw: unhealthy obsession, frottage, stalking.

Here’s her face, her beautiful face, and isn’t it just as lovely as you remember? And here’s her swept back hair and her artfully tattooed skin. There’s the dip of her collar and the jut of her hip, the curve of her ass and the plump of her thigh.

Here she is, here she finally is. All yours and only for you.

“My love,” is the first broken thing past your split lips.

“My life,” is the second, stirring the dead, empty air.

And, “ _Mine_ ” is the third as you fall to your knees with her.

Stroking her hair and holding her close. Rocking with her in your arms, finally in your arms. After so many years of watching from a far. Hearing her laugh, at something you hadn’t said, listening to her coo, at someone that wasn’t you. Living a life that you weren’t a part of.

Oh but now. Now! She’s yours! She’s here and you can kiss those lips. Plush lips, soft lips, smooth under your mouth lips. Warm from the heat of your body, where you kiss here and touch her and reel back to admire her.

In the dark of your workshop, she is the moon. In the loneliness of your life, she is your guiding light. And how you’ve longed-lusted-languished.

“Darling,” you gasp, and kiss her again. Holding her off the filthy floor, she’s too precious a thing to get covered in dust, too good for the grime. And she’s as light as air in your arms, easy to hold and keep close.

To kiss, slower and more thorough this time. To taste the vanilla tinge on her tongue and the warm salt of her skin, your own blood where it spills. So easy to caress her bare arms and hold tight to her bare hip. She’s pliant here, reclined as a Goddess on her altar, and oh, you can’t wait to worship.

“My treasure,” rasps along your dry tongue and you lay her on the silk sheets that’ve fallen, off-off your work table. Onto the floor beside you, beside her.

Your stomach is gnawing-empty and your eyes are burning-tired, but you can’t rest now. Not when you’ve finally done it, finally figured it, finally have her here! Oh and how do you have her.

Swaying on your feet and standing above her, but she’s still the one looking down at you. Glancing through soft lidded eyes, giving you her coyest smile. She knows the effect she has on you, knows just what she could make you do, and she enjoys it…doesn’t she? Like she used to.

When you prowled under her windows and listened to her shuffle about. When you trailed behind her, watchful protector, and watched her across the room; of her favourite café, of her workplace cafeteria, of her apartment lobby. She always pretended to never notice you, but she would smile then too.

Her coy little smiles that let you know she was there, that she knew. And she knows now.

“My darling, sweet darling,” you pant, tearing your eyes from her now otherwise you never will. Ripping out of her hold to stumble into your untouched, musty-dusty bedroom. How long since you changed the sheets? Since you fluffed the pillows?

Your Goddess is here and she’ll have nothing less than the best. So you attack them like a thing possessed. Rip the sheets, and don’t care, fling the pillows at the wall, and don’t wince when something breaks. All of the mess, the unworthy bullshit, gets shoved into the hamper basket, closet, and bathroom. Out of sight of your divine.

Then it’s a manic-panic, helter-skelter race to get new sheets and fresh pillows. Silk sheets, the ones you got specifically for her, deep red like hearts of all the roses you ever sent. Soft and plush goose down, decadent like every passing word she drip fed you over the long years.

The sheets don’t set in their neat corners and the pillows nearly bust from poor handling, but you don’t care about, can’t care about that. She’s here, she’s there, she’s waiting for you dear.

Gazing up at you as you come racing back, as you pant and wheeze and reach for her reaching arms. Her touch is _yes_ and her touch is _oh_ A balm to your burning skin as you lift her back into your arms and tuck your cheek into her palm.

“It’s late, love,” you whisper to her, though the walls are too thick to let sound slip.

“We should go to bed,” you breathe, as if it’s something that just came to you. Not something you’ve been dreaming of for years, waiting so impatiently all the while.

The bed where you lay every night, alone, but thinking of her. The softness of her thighs, stomach, breasts, how her hands would finally feel after watching for so long. Watching and waiting and longing for her.

Laying on these silk sheets with her, it’s a dream. A dream you’ve had so many times, woken up so fucking wet.

Now she’s here and she’s smiling at you and she’s quiet, because it’s so late, but you know what she wants. When you kiss her and she kisses back, warm. When you shift and lay together, face to face, legs tangled together, warm.

“My beautiful darling,” you croak, and run your hands along her hair. Her cheek, her lips. All of it is warm, and pliant, but firm enough when you get a thigh between your legs. When you hook a knee over her hip and savour that first heart stopping rock.

Wet in your pants and dry in your throat as she smile-smile-smiles on forever. One expression on her gorgeous face, the best you could do, but oh could you do. You’d gotten the shape of her nose and the length of her jaw, the crook of her lips, even the exact count of lashes fluttered over dark eyes.

Blank eyes.

In those dreams, the ones in this bed, she would move back. Would pin you down and fuck into you hard, send you slip-sliding up the silk. Or you would kiss her breathless, until she was blinking delirious. You could hold her and have her, and she would give better than she got. Because she was everything and so much, she was marvellous.

Right now, she’s still, motionless. You rut against her, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t sigh-breathe-beg. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even blink, but what does that matter when you can touch her? When you can slip your hand in hers and bury your face in her neck and frot against her thigh like you’ve always wanted.

What does it matter that she’s only as warm as you are, only warm where you touch? What does it fucking matter when your heart’s pounding in your head and your brain’s leaking out your ears. When you have her back, when you have her now, the way she was always meant to be?

What does it matter if she’s less alive as she used to be so long as she’s here? Hearing all your choked off gasps, all the whines of her name, her name, her name.


	19. Blood, Blood, Gallons of the Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All his life he's bleeding out, washing the dry dirt red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: cis masc half-demon / nb werewolf
> 
> petnames: Sweetheart
> 
> cw: blood, oral, multiple orgasms, religious persecution (it's against a demon), vague child abuse, ACAB

Rhys is six years old the first time he’s spitting blood ‘tween his clenched teeth and snarling up at somebody. He’s all of six years old with a head full of white and soul full of spite, spitting blood like the fury he becomes known for.

He’s twelve the first time he gets his hands on a gun, a real shotgun made from cold steel with a kick like a angry mustang. Rhys is twelve and his body’s covered in blue-purple blotches and Lord does it hurt, but not enough to drop his gun. He’s sneering through a mouthful of blood and listening to all the rage-hate- _vitriol_ the ole fucker’s got to spew.

Sure his shoulder stings when the gun kicks and sure he’s gotta bite back a howl of shock-anger-fear, but Rhys never once regrets it. He leaves the shotgun behind but he takes a revolver.

Fifteen and he’s a farm hand, tending the animals, helping with the planting and cultivating and harvesting. Farmer Collins doesn’t let him in the house and Mrs Collins brings him his meals in a beat to shit tin dish, but it’s a better life than he’s had. He's got a roof over his head and steady meals to look forward to, and nothing more pressing than a full day’s honest work.

But he has a head full of silver too, and a mouth sloshing over copper. Held down by two burly men, glaring right up into the sheriff’s ugly face, and wishing for his six shooter.

“You’re a wanted man, Rhys Montgomery,” this town’s sheriff sneers, so fucking pleased to finally have an excuse. All Rhys has to do is give him one more and he’ll have a gold bullet between his sapphire eyes. What a pretty bounty he’ll fetch.

“Fuck you,” is all he growls, between the gurgle of blood and the rage in his chest.

He stumbles across a pack when he’s nineteen, half-way through another run from the law, bogged down with some stolen loot. He’s got a bag of silver and a head of ivory, and he runs into a fucking pack of all things. The devil’s own luck, of course.

The puppies want him dead, say he got sent after them and just had the bad luck of getting caught first. There’s snarling and snapping, flashing eyes and fangs. Rhys only has five shots left on him, and silver coins that ain’t worth shit to a dead man. Even if he had a whole armoury, more guns than he could carry, he’d be no match against a whole pack.

Heh but he could be one hell of a problem, and lucky for him, the leader doesn’t want trouble. She says she doesn’t trust what he is but he didn’t hurt nobody and he’s not gonna rat them out to the locals. Rhys doesn’t ask _what_ the locals are, or why’d they send something to clear out a pack, not his business.

“He can stay,” the leader says giving him a once over with a curled smirk, “just for tonight.”

Rhys sticks to the edge of their camp, eats his own rations, and beds down against a towering rock. Doesn’t sleep though. Not while the puppies hoot and holler just short of a howl, not while the older ones talk quiet, then quieter, amongst themselves. They’ll be moving East at first light, which is fine by him, he’s running South.

Rhys wakes through the night, listening to the sounds of a real family. The snuffling and shuffling, the steady breathing that’s not hitching from a bruise or hurt. He listens to the couples murmur together, soft “ _I love you’s_ ” and the like. Even hears the lone baby gurgle in a dream, and tries not to let it ache too hard.

In the morning they part ways, him heading South, them racing off East. And Rhys watches the pack-family go with bitterness in his throat.

When he meets Vel it’s…well it’s a fucking shit show. He’s got gold around his throat and a bullet in his gut, eating away-eating away. He’s swallowing blood and yowling curses at the preacher man that’s got him chained, at the posse they rounded up to get him down.

“Speak your name, demon!” the preacher man yells.

“Fuck you!” Rhys howls right back. Throwing all his weight against the chain, and wincing at the burn. Struggling and reaching for his gun, but it stays too far away.

Everything’s burning and everything’s hot, and he supposes he knows what church ground does to him now. Half-devil or not, only part of his mother or otherwise, he’s too infernal anyhow.

If this is the end of his wicked line, then it’s no better than he ever expected. He ain’t broken and tossed in a corner, but he’s bruised all to shit just the same. He don’t got a lawman’s gun in his face or a boot in his gut, but he’s on his knees again. Not running from a heist and straight into a pack, but he half wishes he was.

Better a wolf attack than a smiting from the Lord Almighty, who Rhys doesn’t even believe in. Better to get ripped apart than forced to listen to a sermon while he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

Rhys doesn't expect anything more than a slow, painful death. Burning under the preacher man's water, put down by the lawman's gun. He keeps his head up though, always keeps his head up, and hocks bloody spittle right at that pristine preacher's face. Then the world shatters with a howl, and his personal world's remade by a wolf. 

He’s twenty-three now and he’s on death’s door, truly this time. Dragged himself there and slumped on the threshold, can’t make another move. He wants to…thinks he should write up a last will and testament, though he don’t got much. Rosie belongs to herself and his gun’s a pretty piece but useless to anybody who ain’t him.

Rhys looks back at his life, all the blood he’s bled out, bleeding from coast to coast. Now he’s staring up at a musty roof, thoroughly exhausted, and there ain’t enough blood left in him to fill a thimble, much less an erection. But Vel’s gonna fucking try anyway.

“What’s the matter sweetheart? All worn out?” his wolf’s cooing n’ crooning like Rhys’ ain’t dying under him. Panting hard enough to hurt something, head full of cotton and too much liquid pleasure. Liquefying his bones it is, and burning up his blood, and settling all barely lucid in his gut. 

Vel’s warm on him, work worn hands scraping along his sides, stroking the trembling mess of his thighs. And brushing close-closer to…ah hell. Rhys can’t, he really can’t. He’s been edged too long, held off too cruel for the tricks Vel’s pulling out.

Everything’s wet, and _loose_ , and he’s fucked better than best. Rhys is drowning in how good he got done and Vel knows he is, the smug bastard.

“Nah I think there’s a little more left in you,” Vel drawls, all dark-wicked-promising.

And Rhys ain’t sure if that’s a howl, yowl, or scream that tears itself out his ripped-raw throat. Doesn’t fucking care _who_ hears. When Vel swallows his cock right down, again, and starts up their devil damned **_purring_**. Like a fucking _cat_ or some shit.

Should tell ‘em to shut up, should snap his hips and fuck into that wet-warm-wonderful mouth that’s working him up _again_. Lips all plush, tongue so good, perfect on his aching-leaking cock. Can’t. Can’t barely _breathe_ though.

Through his nose and panting through a snarl, biting his lips red-raw-bloody just to stay sane. Cuz this wolf’ll send him mad, off the rails and down the track, oh but he'd love it, wouldn't he? Every bone breaking, hair raising, blood chilling second of it. There's barely anything in this world he wouldn't do for Vel, and even less he wouldn't beg for, if he's broke down far enough. 

Like he is now. 

Scratched up and bleeding, bit up and bruising. 

"Vel, shit Vel," Rhys whines, dragging a limp hand over his hands, blocking the rest of the world so he can just focus on this. On Vel. 

Vel sucking his cock and Vel laughing around it, Vel's claws down his thighs. Vel sucking him, fucking him, bleeding him dry. 

Ah hell, what a way to go. 


	20. Medieval Torture, but like, Sexy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoards things, keeps them, it's really just second nature for him. His Queen though, oh he knows he's just part of her own personal collection, and he does love adding to collections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: masc dragon / fem sea serpent / cis fem human
> 
> petnames: Princess, Queen
> 
> cw: bondage, exhibitionism, predicament bondage, toys.

He’s a wonder in the firelight, gold dripping into the sharp hollows and juts. At his hips, in the crook of his elbow, slicking down his throat, skating off the scaled spattered across his body. This form he takes is something closer to human, something smaller than the leviathan of the sky, but he’s still impossibly large.

Neck so long-serpentine, back arched at impossible angles, following impossible curves. Even the splay of his legs is inhuman, the slant of his slit-pupil eyes. Nothing human, perfectly so.

She lounges in lace and silk, resting against the plush hoard of fabric. Stolen from a merchant ship as it burned. She stretches and gold slides down her arms, jewels clink together. Taken from greedy kings while their castles crumbled. She sighs and there’s only the scent of smoke and fire to greet her, wafting on dragon’s breath to meet her bed.

Across from them, locked-stocked-barred, her newest present writhes. A gift taken from the lowest places, lured up from the depths and brought to her dragon’s den, just as she was. Except, the creature caught in place is no human queen, not even one bound to a demon court.

No-no, the princess of the waves is far from human. With her frilled tail thrashing hard, and her gills splayed wide. Gasping-gasping for a breath, desperate for one and one more. Drowning on dry land almost, except she isn’t quite so dry, and she’s nowhere near drowning.

The firelight falls on her tank, reflecting off the glass to play back across the room, but resting on her too. A rainbow glimmer off silver scales, warmth to skin that’s never known it. She’s a cold thing, deep-dark and down thing, but my isn’t she lovely?

“You could leave, if you wanted,” she croons, still Queen her, smiling at her latest gift while her dragon yawns. Fangs flashing, jaw popping. He went through quite some trouble getting this pretty thing for her, but if she doesn’t want it, then he won’t keep it.

The princess writhes, mouth wide in a pant, chest heaving with the breath she doesn’t need. The merfolk don’t bleed red, or blue, or even green. No no, their blood’s as colourless as their skin, only showing the faintest silver-shine where it spills and pools. The princess’s face is a gleam of silver.

How hard would it be for her to freeze over her shallow pool or suck every bit of warmth from the air? Not very. She could freeze the blood in their veins, kill this mortal queen and fatigue the immortal dragon, and leave back for her depths. But oh no. Where in her depths would she get treated quite like this?

Like a toy, like entertainment. Lashed down and put on display for greedy eyes to watch. Tits pinched, cunt spread, wide-wider on the fake cock buried so perfect-deep. Every thrash slides her lower on her toy, gets her just a little more of that delicious fullness that no other would give her.

Her almost human legs spread wide and held by gold chains, her tail held by gossamer thin threads, and of course the collar. Not charmed, or magic, just a collar with a human Queen’s name carved into the metal tag.

“Do you want, pretty thing?” she asks, stretching out-back arching. A shower of diamond dust puffs into the air around her and more sloughs off as she gets to her feet. Silk shawls dragging along the floor as she saunters to the tank. Keeping her steps light and swaying, giving her dragon something nice to watch as she goes, giving her princess a little taste of what she could have. 

Pale green eyes stare at her hungrily-hungrily, and that mouth works at words that don’t come. The folk don’t care for human tongues but there’s more magic in this one den than three whole kingdoms’ worth and magic is all about _intention_. If her princess speaks, no matter how she does it, her Queen will understand.

But her sweet princess doesn’t do much but pant-whine-moan, each-every sound bubbling past her lips like so many precious pearls.

“Would you like to cum, Princess?” she asks, pressing a hand to the cool glass. Too cool, much-much too cold, nearly freezing. There was already a spider-web of frost spinning along the inside of the glass, not enough to hide the pretty princess but soon.

And she could only imagine the burn of that cold. Leaching the heat out of her bones and freezing her heart solid, oh what a delicious-wretched pain. Like a burning brand on soft skin, a red-hot knife carving flesh. Yes-yes.

“Give me a word, sweet girl,” she purrs, leaning in close-closer. Until there’s only the glass between them, and the frost, until she can see the desperation in those pale eyes, the bob of her throat around a swallow, so much more subtle than her flaring gills.

“Please,” the magic interprets for them. Please in a human language, though the real sound is high and musical, icicles breaking across a frozen lake. The kind of music that isn’t made but exists all the same. Such a pretty sound, such a lovely voice, and oh doesn’t it fit her princess?

“Please, let me,” rings out, and she smiles. And she presses a kiss on the glass before turning her back on it entirely.

She can hear the desperate mewls, the restrained thrashing, and her smile splits into a grin as she sashays over to her dragon. Right into his waiting arms and waiting mouth.

Behind them the princess writhes harder, keens louder, and comes for the first time that night. Only the first time of course, because there’s more. So much more she’s got planned for her pretty new present, but not yet.

She wants to enjoy this first sip the way it deserves. In her dragon’s arms, brushing up against scales and skin and a cock already hard for her. The princess cums and she writhes and she watches. As a Queen kisses her Drake, devouring his wanting mouth, wrapping a hand around his leaking cock.

And she knows, oh does she know, how very badly their Princess wants to join them. Greedy and needy, already came once but already desperate for more. Oh she’ll fit in spectacularly.


	21. I'll be your Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A work perk, is what she is. Just a little end of the year bonus that can fuck you as hard as you want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: gender neutral human / trans fem fox robot
> 
> petnames: Pretty Girl, Master
> 
> cw: pet play, predator/prey, size kink, organised crime

She stands tall, so much taller than you, dressed in clothes that drape and cover oh but they show so much, don’t they? Show off her long-long legs with all their delicate ball joints, show off the white of her skin that’s a perfect porcelain but made of something so much stronger. She can be played with this one, roughed up and thrown around, and she’ll come through just fine.

Her eyes will still sparkle at you, glossy and sharp, her soft mouth will smile just as sweet, and she’ll come crawling back for more. Though, oh though, you'd prefer to treat her so much nicer. Take her pretty places, top of the world places where she can tower over the crowd and simper her praise at you. Because she’s a pet, such a good pet, look she even comes with a collar and leash.

Tonight, she’s all yours. A bonus off a hit, a job well done from the Boss.

“ _Use her however you like_ ,” the Boss had said lazily, distracted with her boy in her lap already. Handing off the leash and shooing you away, with her, your present, your doll.

And now she’s here, splayed out on the bed for you, draping clothes falling open to see. The white of her throat, such lovely ivory, and the pink of her nipples, and the jut of her dick between her legs. The shaft as white as any part of her, a perfect doll’s cock, with the faintest blush of pink to the rosy head.

Like the blush high on her cheeks and the flush at her perfectly articulate ball joints. A lighter pink than the dusk of white-tipped her tails, all five plush and lush behind her. They twitch and sway as she sits, waits for you to make a move. Waits to play.

“How do you want me, Master?” she purrs, head tilted as she waits, cock leaking at attention. She’s a perfect thing, beautiful thing, a designer model from the city’s premier synth distributor, and aren’t you just the luckiest thing to get a taste of her?

To be her Master, if even just for one night?

“Fuck me,” wisps past your lips before you can catch it. Before you can restart your brain and give her a real answer, cuz she deserves a real answer, and she’s a LP model but you’re not sure how advanced. You’ve never seen a LP like her before, straddling that gossamer thing legal-illegal line, with her pretty face and doll bones.

She looks good, because all LP’s do, but she’s nothing like the others you’ve seen. If you look at her face, just her face, you could imagine she was a real person. But you look down and catch the tails, skitter along the joints, and there’s no way she’s anything other than synth. Oh but you like that, don’t you?

You like pretty dolls that you can fuck hard and who fuck back harder. And this one can, right?

“Of course, Master,” she says, and leaps off the bed in a graceful arc. One that snatches all of your attention, the fluttering clothes, the seamless movement. There’s not a stop or stutter as she lands on her feet, delicate and gentle, and starts her stalk towards you.

Five tails sway and blue eyes gleam, squinted half-shut in a smile, and your heart trips-falls down. She moves like something with teeth, big ones, sharp ones, the kind that rip through muscle and crunch down bone. She moves like something on the prowl and oh, _oh,_ **oh** , you’re certainly her prey.

Caught under her gaze as she comes, step after sinuous step. Until she’s standing right in front of you, towering so high you have to crane your neck back just to keep eye contact. Keep it craned back as she leads you back-back, up against the wall, nowhere else to go but up against the wall.

Thin fingers trace your cheek, bloodless palm resting against your pounding heartbeat. She’s not warm, she’s not cold, she’s a perfect non-temperature, just a doll touching you. A doll leaning down to kiss you with such soft lips, licking into your mouth with a tongue like cherry.

A doll that’s _strong_ , gets her hands under your thighs and lifts. Pins you against that wall like a pretty little picture, something to look at, even though she’s the real work of art here. Her claws prick but don’t bleed, her fangs scrape but don’t slice, and she purrs into your mouth like foxes don’t, but no she’s not a fox, even with her tails and her narrow face. She’s a pet, a doll, something to please.

And she’s doing such a good job, isn’t she? Long tongue sliding down your throat, filling you up so nice, like a good cock would and it’s been a while since you’ve had one. Maybe you’ll suck her off after she fucks you stupid, let you lick yourself off of her. Because she _is_ going to fuck you, most certainly and sure. 

Her cock’s already pressed up against your ass, rutting slow and messy, oh you can feel the smear of slick through your pants. And she’s already raking her claws through it, shredding the cloth, and you can’t even be mad at her. She makes such a delighted little noise, a yip in your mouth, when she feels more skin under her porcelain palm.

Moans down your throat when she slides her fingers up and gets them messy with _your_ slick. Already wet, already wanting, throbbing. You want her in you, oh yes, she’ll feel so good. She already feels so good, the perfect length, the perfect fit. A pretty cock on a pretty girl— _doll_ , a pretty doll.

She’s a lovely, gorgeous doll and she—

“Tell me how you’d like me to fuck you, Master,” she whispers, across your lips, a brush of breath that’s heavy and warm and so-so real. She’s a real pretty piece of work, so hi-tech.

“Until I can’t take it anymore,” you pant, meeting her dancing blue eyes, “fuck me stupid, pretty girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnndd There You Have It Folks! The end of my written Kinktober 2020! :D I can't believe how far we've come and all the kinks that've been had. This whole thing was so much fun, all the characters I made up, borrowed, or reused were all a joy to write. All the monsters also did my monster fucker soul good. 
> 
> All in all, I call this a successful Kinktober! 
> 
> Oh but wait, the party's not over yet folks. We've still got 2 extra special ~non-written~ prompts to fill. So head on over to [Mommy Maxie](https://twitter.com/MMaximilla) to see the Grand Finale of this most spooky, sexy and seductive event. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and Happy Halloween!


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